


Pathway To Your Lips

by IndigoDream



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Lambert has no braincells and i love him, M/M, Magic, Monsters, Pain, Poisoning, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Training, fae court, fancy clothes are worn, the parents are super chill in this i do not care about canon (again)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 55,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23537149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream/pseuds/IndigoDream
Summary: Geralt meets with Lord Pankratz about a monster in the forest of his duchy. In the process, he meets Jaskier, the Lord's son who is always dressed in a most extravagant manner. Amidst chaos at the dinner time and troubling thoughts, Geralt gears up to fight the monster he has been hired to kill.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 105
Kudos: 509





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!
> 
> I'm too into those two idiots at this point to stop writing about them, so here you have it, a two part thingy that was supposed to be only a maximum 5k fic lmao (I'm bad at sticking to only one idea) 
> 
> This started as "Jask wears fancy clothes and Geralt is Into It™" and then evolved into... this. There is some violence at the end, but it's nothing more than typical canon violence!
> 
> Also, if you're read Sunfire, you will recognize the name of Jaskier's horse and of the Duchy... I was not into creating new names, and I figured I wasn't stealing intellectual property from myself lmao
> 
> Thanks to the anon and @mellow-child on tumblr for helping out with the naming! I went a different way, but y'all got me started :D
> 
> Enjoy!

It's rare that Geralt is asked by name to come to a castle for a contract. At least, it's rare that the lord of the castle makes it known publicly, rather than have a trusted servant find Geralt in whichever inn he is. That kind of eagerness and show of trust makes Geralt a bit wary. He doesn't really understand it when the lords and ladies parade him around for killing this or that monster. He's a Witcher, not a pet at their disposal. He really hopes this contract isn't going to turn out to be another vain lord who wants to have a Witcher by their side for whichever petty reason.

The castle is big, and well furnished, but it's not over the top. Yes, it's luxurious, but not everything is lined with gold and silver, and the amount of people milling about reassures him slightly. Usually, lords who want him to play bodyguard for the night aren't too keen on him being seen by too many people. 

"Right there, Master Witcher," the small, plump man who had been waiting for him at the gate of the castle smiles as he indicates a large meeting room. "The Duke will be there shortly! Please, have your fill of food and wine, it was prepared for you." 

The hospitality is, once again, unexpected, but Geralt's last contract had been stingy and had only paid half of what they had agreed when Geralt had returned half a day after he said he would. There is no poison he can detect, no smell of anything festering, and he hadn't felt any nervousness from the man who had led him here. 

Geralt sits down in one of the large wooden chair, which are backed by royal blue padding lined with golden embroidered motifs. If Geralt remembers well, this Duke is the direct cousin of the current queen of the country. Royalty in all but title, he could have chosen a life at the court, where all the riches of the palace would have been lavished upon him. But he hasn't. Geralt likes that. He hates being called to royal courts, where all they do is eat, get fat and lie. 

He serves himself a healthy portion of the cold meat in front of him as well as a goblet of ale. There is sweet wine on the table too, but it has never been his taste. It's too much for his heightened palate most of the time, so he sticks to the simpler flavor of ale as much as he can. 

He is halfway through a second serving of meat when a small door opens, on the opposite side of the entrance of the room. Geralt fully expects the lord of the castle to step in, and so when it's a young man who walks in, he is caught by surprise. 

The man is dressed outrageously, almost all of his torso showing through a complicated pattern of dark lace. A necklace, delicate and strikingly golden, rests on his chest, and a half-length cloak is draped over his shoulders, the dark red hue of it highlighting the redness of the man's lips. Geralt can't help it, his eyes venture quickly down, and he sees that the man is wearing pants so tight they look like they have been molded on his legs. The worst of it comes when Geralt realizes the man is actually not as dainty as clothes like that would make think. As the man settles in the chair opposite Geralt, his arms flex and muscles shows through. 

The man sits with one leg over the armrest of the chair, and he turns his eyes to the Witcher. A smile breaks his bored facade. 

"Ah, you must be the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia isn't it? I've heard quite the amount of tales about you, White Wolf." His grin is teasing and his eyes twinkling. "It's such a pleasure to finally meet you." 

Geralt clears his throat and his hand grips the knife he is holding tighter again. He had almost dropped it as he had been taking in the newcomer, whom he highly doubts is the lord. Perhaps a companion of the lord? Geralt would have seen stranger things than a lord having his paramour at the negotiation table. Plus, if Geralt was the one with a man like that at his beck and call... he wouldn't let go of him. 

"And you are?" He asks of the man, looking at him with what he hopes is a blank stare. 

"You can call me Jaskier," the man grins, lips parting to let pass his tongue, wetting his lips. "So, you're going to help with the... pest problem, aren't you Witcher?" 

"I'll see what I can do," Geralt grunts, trying to end this conversation so he can finish the food in his plate. He doesn't want the other man to know how distracted he is by his appearance. 

"Are all Witchers like you?" Blue eyes look at him intensely, and Geralt shakes his head. 

"Well," Jaskier says with a wider grin. "I suppose you're truly special then, Geralt of Rivia." 

Geralt is about to answer, to demand who he is exactly and why he is there, but the larger door opens again and a man, broad shouldered with the same blue eyes as Jaskier, walks in. 

"Pardon my lateness," the lord says and extends a hand to Geralt. "Lord Pankratz . It's a pleasure to meet you. I see you've already met my son, Julian. He was the one who suggested your name to find a solution to our problem.” 

Geralt almost freezes as he shakes the extended hand. Jaskier, or is it Julian?, isn't any kind of paramour. He is the heir to the title of Lord of Gavaudan, castle, and everything else that currently belongs to his father. The witcher should have known better, should have realized that a man so lavishly dressed, who could walk in a room as if he owned it, couldn’t simply be the latest fancy of a lord. Fuck. 

“I have heard of the White Wolf many times,” Jaskier pipes in with a smile, the glint in his eyes a challenge for Geralt. “I had to know if the man was really worth the legend. And since we seem to be in need of a witcher, we might as well get the best there is.” 

“Julian,” his father chides him, giving him a stern glance. “Will you sit properly? You weren’t raised in a barn, and you are to be a duke at my death. You will act like it.” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but he does settle properly next to his father. Clearly, the two are used to this, and Lord Pankratz isn’t quite the harsh father. Rather, there seems to be a closeness between the duo that Geralt doesn’t quite understand. He has, unfortunately, met quite the number of father and sons, and he has always found the relationships fraught with resentment and harshness. Sons envying their father, fathers forcing themselves upon their son’s wife… He has rarely, if he ever, met a father who seemed to care about his son, when it came to those in the nobility. 

“What is the monster?” Geralt redirects the conversation, tearing his eyes from Jaskier with some difficulty, hoping Lord Pankratz hasn’t noticed. 

It should have been the other he was worried about, because Jaskier sighs and takes a pained expression, redirecting Geralt’s attention back to him. “I fear we do not know exactly. The soldiers who have been sent in the… infected area have mostly not come back. The few who did had life shredded from them within an inch, and despite the best efforts of healers, their wounds all got infected and they died.” 

“Poisonous beast then,” Geralt nods and goes through what he thinks it could be. “Anything else?” 

Lord Pankratz is the one to answer after that, and Geralt tries his best to focus. Jaskier is a very distracting presence however; the man’s curiosity and interest pepper the air fragrantly, and the light perfume he wears, while not overwhelming for Geralt’s senses, still draws the Witcher’s attention. 

“Did you keep the bodies of the dead soldiers?” Geralt asks after the lord has finished describing what could be a few different creatures. He needs certainty before going to the forest. There are marshes there, and he would rather know exactly what he is going to face, and whether he’ll need to worry about being drowned or not. 

Lord Pankratz nods, smart blue eyes darting to his son, who has been twirling his necklace around while listening and piping in the conversation every so often. “Julian will take you to them.” 

Geralt wants to refuse, to say a guard will be more than enough, but one doesn’t exactly reject being escorted by nobility. Especially not when the money offered for the contract could be enough to sustain him for a few weeks at the very least. He simply gets up with a nod and looks at Jaskier expectantly. The man’s slow grin is nothing short of absolutely carnal and pleased. Geralt suppresses the urge he has to shiver. He doesn’t have the time to desire people, not outside of brothels. He doesn’t have the luxury of indulging in affairs the way this man is clearly looking for. Geralt is a witcher, bound to the Path. 

“We’ll meet you back for dinner then father,” Jaskier half-bows to his father and turns around the table to grab Geralt’s arm. “Come Geralt, we have bodies to see.” 

The familiarity in the man’s tone catches Geralt off guard. Usually, people are wary of him, afraid of what his presence means. The young lord is downright cheery. 

“You said your name was Jaskier,” Geralt surprises himself by saying as he follows the man. “Why?” 

A sigh answers him, and Jaskier tilts his head to the side, still holding on Geralt’s bicep, his fingers moving in a distracting pattern. “I suppose I like the name better. And really, Julian Pankratz is quite a name. While Jaskier… It evokes so much more in me, Geralt. It makes me feel like an adventurer, like someone who is worth knowing.” 

“You are a lord.” Geralt remarks, failing short of not looking at the tantalizing sliver of skin he can see through the man’s shirt. 

“Ah yes, but one doesn’t control the circumstances of his birth. It isn’t because my father is a lord and extremely important that I am worth knowing. After all, look at you. You aren’t of noble birth, and yet thousands clamour for your attention. You are the famed White Wolf, the witcher who is said to be the bravest of them all.” 

Geralt hums at that. 

“And quite obviously, the legends don’t lie about your preference for silence,” Jaskier says teasingly before continuing on. “It is quite fascinating to me, the way you are the centre of everyone’s discussion each time you do some heroics, and yet when people are asked where to find you, it seems as if they have forgotten how to use their own tongues. Anything to do with you, or are they just terrified that, by mentioning the famed witcher, they might summon him right next to them?” 

“That’s not how magic works,” Geralt cuts in, wondering how much the young lord can speak. His voice isn’t quite grating; rather, Geralt finds that he enjoys listening to Jaskier speaking. It’s an unknown feeling, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He wants it gone, so that he can go on to hunt whatever monster has been killing children along the borderlands of Lord Pankratz’s property. 

“Oh, I know,” the young lord says, letting go of Geralt’s arm. 

Instantly, the witcher misses the touch, and he grits his teeth. He needs to get over all those sensations. There is just something so peculiar about Jaskier, something that makes Geralt want to reach out and taste, bite, hold on. 

“It’s much less impressive, magic,” Jaskier continues speaking as he leads Geralt down a flight of stairs. “Although, I imagine that if I happened to be versed in that particular art, I might use for something as trivial as transporting someone next to me.” 

He adds a wink to that, and Geralt wonders how much flirting the man can pack in a mostly one-sided conversation. Geralt almost wish he had met Jaskier on the road, in an inn or a brothel. There, Geralt wouldn’t have resisted quite so much; he would have pulled the man to a room, and made him sing all night long. 

Geralt shakes his head slightly, and the grin on Jaskier’s lips is knowing. The witcher tries to ignore the desire raging in his chest as Jaskier finishes leading him to a small, cold room. There, and only there, his cheery demeanour falters, and something graver enters his features. Some sadness and guilt emanates from Jaskier, the way it had from his father, and Geralt is a bit surprised to find that the lords of this land care about their people. 

“You don’t have to face the dead again,” Geralt says as Jaskier pulls the door open. “I can observe on my own.” 

“Nonsense,” Jaskier brushes aside his worry and walks inside the room first. “I’ve already seen them, and they are owed proper respect.” 

_Respect_. For soldiers his father and him had, unknowingly, sent to their deaths. The Pankratz family surprises Geralt at every turn. 

Despite his habit of taking time in cases like this, he examines the four bodies in the room as fast as he can, eager to ease the unease of the man with him. Jaskier follows along Geralt, looking but not talking, and despite how uncomfortable he is, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t complain, doesn’t demand answers from Geralt until he is done looking. Afterwards, they start walking slowly again in the corridors.

“Do you have a better idea of what you’ll be facing?” 

“I believe it to be—“ he is about to say the name of the monster when two fingers are pressed against his mouth, stopping him in both his sentence and his steps. 

Jaskier’s eyes are twinkling again with an amused light. “Keep some mystery, my dear witcher. Whatever shall we talk about at dinner otherwise?” 

“Don’t you want to know what it is?” 

“Oh, I do,” Jaskier smiles and removes his fingers from where they still were over Geralt’s mouth. “But it will do no good for you to reveal it to me at the moment. Might as well wait until you are back with my father, so that you can explain to him exactly what you’ll be killing for him, without repeating yourself.”

The man just keeps astonishing Geralt, with every turn of his words the witcher is thrown into wonderings and questionings. What is it that Jaskier wants of him? Why did he request that his father hire Geralt, and not any witcher that would pass through the territory or nearby? 

“Alright,” he finally answers. “I’ll wait then.” 

“How delightful! It will keep the shadow of the mystery a bit longer for me. I’ll admit, I am quite impatient, but I am sure we can find something to occupy our time with until dinner.” 

His voice is almost sultry, inviting in a way Geralt has always heard thrown around in brothels, although rarely to him. Witchers are intimidating, monstrous and inhuman, and he has learnt to deal with it. He doesn’t know what to do with Jaskier’s whole demeanour, the way words slide out of his mouth like a lover’s caress. He doesn’t know what to do with the fact that he wants such a man. 

“We’ve quarters ready for you,” Jaskier continues, his voice much clearer now, a hint of amusement coming through. “And we can have other clothes made ready at your disposal, if you so wish.” 

“Is there a problem with my clothes?” Geralt asks, rising an eyebrow, and Jaskier laughs. 

His laughter is like a songbird’s delighted noises in the middle of a calm forest. It fills Geralt with intense yearning, and it makes him want to touch, to reach out and hear more. It makes him wonder what else the man can sound like. Would he be so noisy in bed, or would he keep his mouth busy elsewhere? Would he make himself remain silent, forcing Geralt to coax the words and noises out of his mouth with teasing touches and bites all over his body?

“No problem at all, dear witcher,” Jaskier grins. “I just wondered if you wanted to change. Perhaps a bath? I know I certainly do like one after a long journey, and I don’t doubt that you’ll enjoy one as well. After all, there is rarely anything more pleasant than soaking in hot water and enjoying oneself that way. Is there?” 

The lord asks the question with a cocked eyebrow, and Geralt knows what he is hinting at, or at least he thinks he knows. There are little things better than being able to enjoy a warm bath, but a warm and willing body beneath his own is certainly something Geralt likes more, in some occasion. The reoccurring thought of Jaskier in that position makes him shift a bit, his body uncomfortable with every passing moment where Jaskier, in his tight, skin revealing outfit, flirts and teases. 

“I suppose not,” he agrees with a hum. 

“We might yet make a conversationalist out of you, Geralt!” Jaskier seizes back his arm and takes him through the castle again, chattering on and on.

It’s pleasant, in a way Geralt isn’t used to. People aren’t usually too keen of talking to him, and some have taken offence at his silence, but Jaskier seems pleased enough in his company. He doesn’t appear to mind that his companion barely answers, or that when he does his sentences are clipped and short. Rather, it seems that each time he elicits an answer, whether it be noise or words, Jaskier’s smile gets brighter. Geralt wants to keep seeing that bright smile, and it almost hurts when he reminds himself that he’ll likely never cross paths with Jaskier again after this job is done. 

“We have reached your rooms, I shall let you make yourself decent for dinner, and so shall I!” Jaskier declares, opening the door and letting Geralt go inside.

Geralt can’t resist; he eyes the man up and down quickly, rising an eyebrow. “And this is decent for…?” 

Jaskier grins cockily, leaning against the doorframe. The warmth of the sun as it enters the room through the large windows behind Geralt paints the young lord in a golden light, and his blue eyes are even more mesmerizing than before. 

“For meeting the White Wolf himself of course,” Jaskier’s smile turns almost predatory. “One never knows if the legends are true. And if they are, some of us wouldn’t mind being the lamb thrown into the wolf’s path.” He winks cheekily and turns around, waving without looking back. “See you at dinner Geralt! Someone will come to get you, so don’t be late!” 

The man’s hips sway lazily as he walks away, and Geralt has to restrain himself slightly from going after him. Even after what Jaskier just said, his near-open admission that he had been trying to seduce the witcher, it feels wrong to pursue the man for carnal pleasures only. The way he had reacted to entering the soldiers’ last resting place had been proof enough that the man had a heart, and that he was a good man. 

Geralt doesn’t want to ruin a good man’s reputation just for a few fleeting moments of pleasure. He isn’t that selfish just yet. Just because he has somehow caught the young man’s fancy, it doesn’t mean that he should act on his own desires. It could have disastrous repercussions, especially for Jaskier. Witchers are already hated, but they are needed too, and people can’t take him out. They would be too afraid to even attempt to do so. But if words get around that Jaskier slept with a witcher… Only the gods can tell what would happen to him. And Geralt won’t do that to the young lord. 

He bathes and cleans his hair carefully. Products are lined up all along the large bathtub, and he smells them a bit cautiously. Any strong scent that would overpower his sensibilities, he puts back immediately. When he reaches one that feels delicate enough to not upset his senses and still make him more presentable to the Lord of Gavaudan, he uses it for both hair and body. It’s only after using it that he realizes that this is the very same smell as Jaskier’s perfume. It feels like Geralt has rubbed himself all over Jaskier’s belongings until the man’s scent imprinted on his body. The fact that he can already recognize the scent makes him slightly annoyed, and yet he can’t help but smile. He leaves the smell as it is. 

He pulls on some clean clothes, the best that he has, and ignores the small part of himself that wonders if Jaskier will mind that he doesn’t have fancier clothes. He’s a witcher, not a silk trader, he doesn’t need to wear fancy clothes. When there is a knock on his door, he has just finished combing his hair, trying to make it slightly less messy, and he abandons the fight to follow the servant to the dining hall. 

It is a rather simple dining hall, but there are a few more seats to the table. So, it won’t be just him with the family of Lord Pankratz. The Lord of the castle is already sitting at the table, with a woman that Geralt assumes his his wife. She looks little like Jaskier, but there is something in the way she smiles at her husband that makes him wonder how this lord got so lucky, to have an adoring wife and a son who has some sense of responsibilities, if not decorum. 

“Ah, Geralt,” Lord Pankratz smiles and indicates a place next to himself. “Have you found everything you needed while looking at the bodies?” 

What is it with this family’s easy familiarity with him? Humans, be they royalty or not, have always had some fear for witchers. Geralt can’t remember the last time he was treated in such terms. 

“I did. Your son suggested I wait until dinner to tell. I see you will have guests, would you rather I tell you after dinner?” 

Lord Pankratz waves the worry. “Don’t worry, my boy. My guests are all aware of your presence, and the reason why you are here is no secret. You do not need to stifle yourself for their sake.” 

Geralt nods, ignoring the warmth in the lord’s tone when he had called him “my boy”. Those are strange humans, but humans nonetheless, and Geralt doesn’t have the time to think about that anyway. Guests are filling in, and before long, the only empty chair is the one opposite Geralt. He has a young lady next to him, barely out of her teenage years, and she smiles shyly. She’s pretty, but her hand shows a wedding band, and she had walked in the hall holding the arm of a man a few years her senior. 

“Julian is taking his time, my lord?” The girl asks amused. “Any particular reason? He is always looking forward to dinner parties.” 

It’s Lady Pankratz who answers, laughing in much the same airy and lilting manner Jaskier had. “Our son has a guest he wants to impress,” she looks briefly at Geralt, “and you know how he can be in those moments, Lady Armelle.” 

The other woman smiles warmly and looks at Geralt. “Lucky man, to have the attention of Julian.” 

“I’ve done nothing to deserve it,” Geralt says, trying to understand what is happening around him. Has he stepped into an alternate reality, where everyone is friendly and acknowledges Jaskier’s attraction to men, treating it as a normal occurrence? 

“Being ruggedly handsome is enough for my cousin,” Lady Armelle chuckles. “And I certainly do not blame him.” 

“… Thank you?” He has no idea how he is supposed to answer people here. He has no idea what the hell is happening. 

“Sorry for being late,” Jaskier says from the room’s entrance, and Geralt turns to look at him. “I ran into some trouble with my outfit.”

Geralt forgets that there are multiple people around him for a few seconds as he takes in the slowly advancing young lord. His legs are slipping through the long blue skirt that he wears, gold embroidered all the way down in a delicate floral pattern, and Geralt can glimpse that he is barefoot as his legs part the skirt slit on Jaskier’s right side. His top is a white shirt with puffed sleeves, but most buttons are left open, except for the last two, and another necklace, this time black as night rather than the gold he had worn earlier, rests against his throat. He has long earrings, with some kind of jewels — probably sapphires, considering the breathtaking hue — dangling and brushing against his chin. 

And then, there is his face. Delicately painted, Jaskier’s lips are a dark shade of red, almost edging on purple, and his eyes are lined with dark kohl. He smiles brightly at Geralt as he passes him by, lets his mother kiss his cheek, and settle opposite to Geralt. His blue eyes seem even deeper with the makeup he is wearing, and Geralt has to force himself to breathe again. 

“Who’s lady have you ransomed for this dress, Julian?” Armelle teases, bringing Geralt back to the table. 

“Me, ransoming anyone? You wound me with such an accusation Armelle.” Jaskier grins, and for a flash of a second Geralt sees sharp teeth, but he blinks and there is nothing anymore. He’s tired, his mind might be playing tricks on him. 

Dinner starts, everyone talking to one another, the chatter in the hall lulling Geralt slightly as no one asks him to participate. There is something strange in this castle but for now the food is good, the company not more annoying, and Jaskier twirling his glass of wine as he talks with another guest is distracting enough for Geralt to ignore the strangeness. The man’s nails are painted the same shade of blue as his skirt. It’s unfailingly attractive, and Geralt almost doesn’t believe himself when he realizes that. Somehow, the sight of Jaskier in all this finery has him undone, and he wants more than nothing to know how the man’s body would look like underneath Geralt, or even atop him. Geralt isn’t picky, and he has some strange feeling that Jaskier rarely relents control. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier drawls out slowly, the name so different on his tongue that the witcher almost doesn’t recognize it as his own until he feels the man’s eyes on him. “Are you certain about the creature hunting our people?” 

“Yes,” the witcher nods, breathing more easily now that they are back on a territory he knows. “I believe it to be a Lamia.” 

The name makes some of the guest freeze, and fears seize them, but Jaskier seems obvious to the fear of their dining companions. 

“And that would be?” 

“A child-eating creature,” Geralt explains, feeling lady Armelle’s wince next to him. “Once it was a mother, but her children were taken and killed, and she slowly delved into madness, until she had no more humanity left in her.” 

“Lamias are doomed to eat the children they encounter,” Lady Pankratz says in a low, measured voice as she puts her fork back on the table. Her cheeks are pale, her eyes glistening with tears. “They are a curse upon our people, but above all, a curse upon themselves.” 

So the Lady of the castle knows her monsters, Geralt is surprised to see that. This is truly an unusual castle, filled with unusual people. 

“Mother,” Jaskier asks gently, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Do you need to go rest?” 

“I’ll be fine, Jask— Julian. It’s nothing of consequences. Lady Armelle, would you accompany for a walk? The third course won’t be served right away, and we are all in need of some distraction.” 

Lady Armelle nods and moves quickly, extending her arm to Lady Pankratz. They exit the hall quietly, but Geralt’s ears pick up on the sound of their back and forth whisper. 

“You’ll be able to take care of that monster?” Lord Pankratz asks to Geralt, concern clear in his face, and his eyes keep darting to the entrance from where his wife left. 

“It shouldn’t be too much of a problem,” Geralt nods. “I can even go tonight, after the dinner.” 

“Nonsense,” the Lord says. “The beast doesn’t hunt at night, does it? There is no need to overexert yourself, Geralt. Leave in the morning, that will be enough.” 

“Could I accompany you?” Jaskier leans on his elbow, looking at Geralt intensely. “To see how you take care of the monsters.” 

“It’s unwise,” Geralt shakes his head. “I might not be able to protect you.” 

“Who said I would need protection?” 

Geralt’s eyes take in his fanciful outfit, and he looks at Jaskier with a doubtful expression. “You aren’t a witcher. You could get killed.”

“I’ll be fine. Let me come along, Geralt. I know where the attacks have occurred, I have ridden there multiple times. And I know the woods. I could be useful.” 

“An unnecessary risk,” Geralt growls slightly. “I will not endanger you for no reason other than your pride.” 

Jaskier stands up slowly, and the whole room falls silent. He looks calmly furious as he moves toward Geralt, and the witcher feels pinned under his gaze, unable to move or even think. When Jaskier grabs his chin and forces him to look up at him, Geralt has no other choice but to obey. 

“I will come,” Jaskier says in a low voice, the demand slipping off his tongue and pushing into Geralt’s mind with some harsh intent. “And you will let me come. You will let me guide you, and you will not accuse me of foolish pride, when it is my people who are at risk. Is that understood, Geralt of Rivia?” 

Jaskier’s nails are digging into Geralt’s chin, and he sees suddenly. He sees beyond the mask of the beautiful young lord Jaskier wears, past the human name his father gave him but his mother had almost forgotten. The sharp teeth of Jaskier’s smile are in his mind as he manages to wrench his chin away from Jaskier’s grip. 

“Fae,” he whispers, stumbling back, Jaskier’s magic fading as the young lord realizes what just happened. “You’re a fae.” 

Geralt doesn’t have his sword, but even if he did, he would not draw it against Jaskier. Because the blown pupils of the man, the way he has stepped back and his father has stepped up, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, those are inherently human gestures. Jaskier doesn’t have the slit pupils of the fae, nor the pointed ears. 

“Half-human,” Jaskier corrects, voice trembling slightly. “I’m sorry. I should not have tried to force your hand.” 

Geralt doesn’t know how to react to that. Faes aren’t monsters, he isn’t supposed to hunt them. They are rare however, extremely rare nowadays, and they rarely, if ever, show themselves amongst mortal company. 

Geralt casts a look around himself, at all the guests, and he realizes that he isn’t in mortal company. He has stepped into a fae court. He has eaten fae food, drank fae drinks. He should be under the fae’s spells, and yet… 

“You’re all faes, or part faes.” 

“Or simply married to faes, witcher,” Lady Pankratz’s voice comes from behind Geralt, and he turns to look at her. Her own eyes are slit, and her pointed ears are revealed from her long brown hair. “We did not enchant you, if that is what you are worried of. Forgive my son for his use of magic, he is still young and dislikes not getting what he wants.” 

Geralt eyes her, and then Jaskier and Lord Pankratz, and the rest of the table. Amongst the ten guests, he can see two humans, and another half-human being. It is quite strange, but Geralt knows they mean him no harm. Jaskier had looked genuinely sorry, and half-out of his own mind as he had tried to enchant Geralt, in a way that spoke more of untrained power rather than genuine harm wished. And he had only tried to enchant Geralt to be able to go with him, not to force Geralt to do anything. 

At least, he grunts. “Alright.” 

The tension in the room deflates a bit, and Jaskier’s shoulders fall. Guilt shines through his every movement, and he kneels next to his father as the older man sits down. 

“I’m sorry father,” Jaskier whispers and kisses his father’s wedding band. “I did not mean to cause us any harm, please forgive me.” 

_What is he doing?_ Geralt wonders as Lord Pankratz nods at the apology, but Jaskier doesn’t get up, still kneeling. 

“I will righten my wrong, and make it safe for us again,” Jaskier continues lowly, the conversations starting all over again as Lady Pankratz and Lady Armelle join the table again.

Geralt is still standing away from the table, wondering what it is that makes him want to go back and share the rest of his meal with them. Was it the familiarity they had granted him? The way Lord Pankratz had treated him as if he were family, as if he were respectable? Or is it the fact that, now that he has accepted to forgive Jaskier, the fear has dissipated completely, letting place to merriness. Faes are strange creatures, definitely, and their lives are stretched across centuries. They do not fear the blade of a witcher, they never had. What they had feared, Geralt realizes, was the disgrace of Jaskier. The fall of one of their own would have been terrible, and clearly Jaskier has some status, something that makes him special in their eyes. 

Lord Pankratz caresses his son’s hair. “It was a mistake, Julian. Don’t let it happen again.” 

“I won’t!” Jaskier says eagerly, and then he repeats the process with his mother, who looks at him with a tenderness Geralt has never known, a tenderness he used to ache for when he was a child. 

“Take back your seat, Geralt,” Lord Pankratz says when Jaskier is sitting down again, looking down at his plate in shame and guilt. 

“You wish me to stay?” Geralt asks this, incredulous. 

“If you so desire, yes. You aren’t the type to go chatter about us, and…” Lord Pankratz’s eyes turn to his son, and he shrugs slightly. “I’m sure my son would appreciate having a chance to make himself forgiven.” 

“No need,” Geralt says and walks slowly back to the table. “There is nothing to forgive. The enchantment did not take, and it was not meant. Was it?” 

“No! I did not mean to, I swear,” Jaskier looks up, blue eyes full of tears.

It fills Geralt with some pain to see the beautiful man this way. Nothing should be allowed to make him look this mixture of pain and shame. His lips should always curl in those delighted grins he had sent Geralt. Joy and lust were made to fit Jaskier, not guilt and shame. Geralt hates himself for having caused the young lord to try and enchant him. If he had not denied him… 

“Would you like to accompany me tomorrow?” The question is a bit rough, a bit mumbled, but Geralt is really trying his best here. 

“Are you sure that’s wise, witcher?” Lady Pankratz asks with a frown.

“It’ll be fine mother,” Jaskier says quickly. “I asked for this. I want to go with him. And I’m more than capable of protecting myself.” 

“I won’t let anything to your son, my Lady.” Geralt bows his head at her lightly. 

Her eyes pierce into his soul, but she nods reluctantly. “If it is my son’s desire.” 

Jaskier’s smile is so bright it dazzles Geralt briefly. The glint of joy is back in those blue eyes, although still dimmed by the guilt he feels. 

The rest of the dinner is quieter, although Jaskier engages in conversation with his parents and friends. Geralt stays quiet, his eyes observing Jaskier. He can’t quite stop watching him, can’t stop feeding the need in his chest to see as much of the half-fae man as he can get. He looks at the long dangling earrings caress his neck, the way his shirt moves on his chest as he gestures to a man on the other side of the table. 

“Are you enjoying the view, Geralt of Rivia?” Lady Armelle’s voice is teasing next to him, and Geralt looks at her, surprised at her warmth towards him. “Oh, don’t give me that look. You aren’t the first witcher I encounter. You aren’t the first witcher who spared us either. Your School seems to be rather fond of letting us non-human creatures live, as long as we do not harm humans. Tell me, why do you protect humans, when they treat you the same way they do my people?” 

“… They don’t deserve to die for their inability to empathize with anything that isn’t human,” Geralt answers with a sigh. “Believe me, I have asked myself that question many time as well. But there is no simple answer besides that sometimes, the right thing to do is not the easiest one. It isn’t always easy to kill the monsters, and they pay barely the minimum amount we charge…” 

“But they don’t deserve to die for their treatment of you,” Lady Armelle says kindly. “You are a good man, Geralt. You will take good care of Jaskier, won’t you?” 

“I’ll bring him back here unarmed,” Geralt promises solemnly. 

“Good,” Armelle nods at that, and turns back to her right side companions. 

When Geralt turns back, he catches Jaskier looking at him, but the man looks away quickly, as if he had been caught doing something forbidden. Yet, everyone has been acknowledging that Jaskier is attracted to Geralt, and no one has seemed to be chiming him for it. Rather, there had been an air of encouragement, at least until the enchanting incident. 

Geralt waits until the end of the last course to excuse himself. He is weary and wants to rest before the hunt of the next day. Jaskier’s blue eyes follow him until deep into his dreams. 

The next morning, Geralt goes to the stable and finds Jaskier there, talking to Roach as if she doesn’t usually hate everyone usually. 

“He’s quite handsome, your owner, but you know that don’t you?” He caresses the mare’s muzzle. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” 

“I don’t know either,” Geralt grunts and Jaskier jumps slightly, startled. “Do you have your own horse?” 

“Do I— Yes! Of course. I’m… Thank you. For taking me with you.” 

“I should have let you in the first place,” Geralt says and then stops as he takes in Jaskier’s outfit. “This is different.” 

The man is wearing a tightly double-buttoned up jacket of a dark black colour, with the silver buttons shining, and riding pants that cling to his body. There is not a trace of jewelry, and he looks oddly dressed down. A sword hangs from his hips, and the pommel of it looks worn enough, a clear indication of usage. It sits unwell with Geralt, this change in appearance. 

“Ah, yes. I realized I might have… made you uncomfortable yesterday. I am sorry for that. And well, skirts and lace aren’t exactly practical for monster hunting I suppose.” 

“You didn’t.” 

“Pardon me?” Jaskier asks as he moves towards his own horse, a large black stallion a few stalls away from Roach. 

“Make me uncomfortable. You didn’t.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes slightly, and then the hint of a grin lights up his face. “So would you rather I go get changed then? I’m sure I could pull together something just for you, Geralt.” 

Geralt hums slightly and eyes him up and down. “No. We don’t have the time.” 

Jaskier laughs, delighted. Clearly, a weight has lifted off his shoulders, and he smiles dazzlingly at Geralt. They get Roach and Hellebore, Jaskier’s horse, out of the stables and out of the castle. 

“You’re still not wearing shoes,” Geralt notes as they both get on top of their horse. “Why?”

A shrug moves Jaskier’s body. “I would rather feel the earth, sturdy under my feet, than have them be protected. You know what I am, so you must understand that my magic is rooted in the soil.” 

“In this land?” 

“Yes,” Jaskier answers quietly as they ride away from the castle at a simple trot. “They are my mother’s ancestral lands. When she chose to marry my father, to bind herself to him in his mortal life, she had already been blessing this land for thousands of years.” 

Geralt hums lightly. Fae magic is strange, and if what Lady Armelle has said is true, then other witchers know about those particular faes. He’ll have to ask Vesemir about it. Inside him, a desire to know everything about Jaskier burns bright, and he doesn’t know why, but he can at least try to solve that desire. 

It takes them about an hour to reach the first death site, nearby a stream, and Jaskier hops down his horse lightly. Geralt follows suit and ties Roach’s bridle to a tree branch, making sure that the knot is loose enough that the mare will be able to get away if she feels any danger. 

“You care much for your horse,” Jaskier comments lightly as he waits. 

“She has taken me away from many stumbles on the Path,” Geralt acknowledges. 

“Handsome, and caring, on top of all.” Jaskier laughs at Geralt’s stone-faced look. “Let me have my fun, witcher. You’ll abandon me soon enough, and then I’ll be left with only memories of you, for all my eternity.” 

The thought of it makes Geralt’s heart seizes. He has only met Jaskier the day before, but he already wants to stay with the man. It’s almost ridiculous, the way his body and mind have been reacting to him. Like all his years of training, all his mutations, are ineffective when it comes to him. Maybe that’s fae magic.

When he asks, Jaskier grins again. “Would you be disappointed if I said it isn’t?” 

Geralt looks at him flatly. “Why would I be.” 

The half-fae man grins, coming closer to Geralt, until his lips brush until Geralt’s jaw when he speaks into his ear. “There is no magic stronger than attraction, Geralt, don’t you know? No need to be fae for me to attract you.” 

Geralt doesn’t move, doesn’t even think about stepping back. Instead, he looks down at Jaskier, whose blue eyes are twinkling with mirth. His lips are slightly parted, revealing his tongue, and his chest rises and falls at a steady rhythm. Geralt leans in, giving up to his desire. 

There is a noise then, something screeching and groaning, and Geralt moves back, unsheathing his silver sword from his back. He puts Jaskier behind him but the fae lord protests and pushes his hand, coming to stand next to him. There is fierce determination as he grabs his own sword from its sheath. 

They advance deeper into the forest, and Geralt really wishes Jaskier was back at the castle, safe and away from the Lamia. The screeching continues, loud and horrifying, and Jaskier’s hand tightens on his sword. His jaw is set, and Geralt nods at him. 

_It’ll be alright,_ he wants to tell him, but doesn’t dare open his mouth at the moment. 

The screeching stops as they enter a meadow, and Geralt swears. They are exposed. When he tries to pull back Jaskier into the woods, the Lamia shows herself, her deformed, inhuman body stopping the path. She is huge, and clearly no youngling. She must have moved here from some other location, because Geralt sees the grey colour of her skin for what it is. She has grown, grown much past of many other Lamias he has seen depicted before. She’s ancient, and in some way he hates having to kill her. But she is a danger, a menace, and she has already been killing innocent children for at least fifty years. 

She tilts her head, grins, and her putrid breath wafts over to Geralt. Jaskier wrinkles his nose and moves back, and she looks at him then, her dark eyes settling on the fae. There is nothing human about the Lamia anymore. She is crouched on four legs, and her back is broken and disjointed, her spine exposed to the elements as it cracked her skin open. Her visage is almost insect like, with a row of pitch black eyes, but there is a distinct predator inspiration, because her mouth is huge, and it can open about half as high as Geralt. 

“Fuck,” he swears and advances.

She moves fast, jumping from one place to another quickly, and Geralt has no other choice but to follow and try to outrun her. She’ll get tired at some point, but he is starting to wonder if it won’t be after he does. So he stops, whistles, and grins as her head whips around, settling on him. _Lamias hate shrill noises_ , Vesemir had said once. That’s why they kill children and feed themselves mostly on them. 

She attacks him now, her sharp claws aiming at his heart, but he fights back, hacking at whatever he can with his sword. It isn’t the fight to be mild-tempered. Jaskier is somewhere around, although Geralt can’t see him he can sense him, and the Lamia is his contract. 

His attempts to drive his sword through the lamia’s neck, where it would be guaranteed to kill her, are thrown off when she kicks him away, his sword nearly slipping out of his grip. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s panicked voice comes from somewhere nearby, and the lamia hears it. 

She grins almost humanly then, and Geralt swears again as she sets off to find Jaskier. 

“Jaskier, get out of here,” he yells, but he doesn’t see any moment indicating that he might have been listened to. 

Instead, the lamia stops abruptly, keening, and crouches down on the ground, backing away for a few seconds. Before long though, she has managed to shake off whatever is affecting her and is back on Jaskier’s track. Geralt is still running towards her and he manages to throw her off course by jumping against her. She falls away heavily, struggling against a weaponless Geralt, who had to let go of his sword when her claw had reached close enough to wound his wrist. The only way to escape that had been to slip his hand away, by letting the silver sword fall on the ground. He struggles with her, getting scratched enough time that it starts to be painful, even for him, but he is slowly gaining the upper hand. 

“Catch,” Jaskier shouts, and Geralt looks up to see his sword being thrown towards him. 

He catches it by the handle when it reaches him, and he drives it deep into the monster’s neck. Of course, ichor spills all over him, because there is never a moment where he is lucky enough that it doesn’t. 

When he emerges from underneath the carcass, a frantic Jaskier pulls him in his arms and holds him tightly. The strength in the hold isn’t human, completely driven by Jaskier’s fear, but Geralt doesn’t protest. It’s strange, being held this way, but it isn’t bad. He isn’t quite willing to admit that he likes it, but he lets himself be held, and slowly drags an ichor covered arm across Jaskier’s back, holding him as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They come back from hunting the lamia, and things change between them. Oh, and we learn a little bit more about Jaskier...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I THOUGHT this was going to be just a 2 part thing. I am, admittedly, unable to be short and concise, and I wanted to add too much worldbuilding. So now it's an ongoing thing and g-d knows how long it will be lmao
> 
> This part is mainly them being horny and some light sprinkling of plot tbh. Geralt might be a bit OOC but like. That's my baby and I'll force him to have emotions!!! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, tune in on my tumblr (@saltytransmalec) if you want to hear more about those two, or if you want to read an essay on Her Sweet Kiss lol

When Jaskier finally lets go of him, Geralt grunts a bit and frowns when he sees that monster ichor is now covering the fae. It doesn’t fit him, not when he is so brilliant, but the smile on Jaskier’s face is bright and large. 

“That was amazing,” he says as he steps back. 

“We nearly got killed and you found that amazing?” Geralt rasps out, cleaning his sword on the grass of the meadow before pulling out a wiping cloth from his jacket. 

“Well, you were amazing mostly,” Jaskier grins. “I’m glad you are alright though, it looked like it had you pinned…” 

“She did,” Geralt finishes his cleaning and sheathes back his sword. “Could only get her thanks to you.” 

Jaskier doesn’t seem to care that Geralt is still covered in monster guts; he comes to hug him again. “I couldn’t bear to see you hurt.” 

Geralt hums and pats his head slightly, wondering how he managed to end up with a clingy half-fae. It’s more of a question of why he likes that Jaskier is so clingy and not afraid of touching Geralt, why is it that, when Jaskier pulls back, Geralt wants to pull him back in his arms and keep him there for hours. 

“Whatever you did, it was useful.” Geralt nods and looks at the lamia’s carcass. “Will your father want the body as proof?” 

“Your clothes are proof enough that you spilled monster blood,” Jaskier chuckles. “And I’ll vouch for you if needed.” 

“You would?” Vouching for Geralt puts Jaskier’s honour at risk, and his status as well. Although Geralt has killed the monster, and can well prove it, if someone disproves Geralt and accuses him of treachery, Jaskier will be on the line as well. 

“You killed the monster, and you saved my life. Of course I would Geralt.” Unbearable tenderness coats Jaskier’s words and Geralt has to look away from those piercing blue eyes. 

“Thank you.” 

He doesn’t wait for any answers, turning around and looking back at the dead monster. It’ll attract predators if they leave it here, and if people feel safe enough to return to the forest, then they might come upon it… 

“We need to bury it, isn’t it?” 

The “we” is what surprises Geralt the most. Not that Jaskier knows what Geralt had been intent on saying, but that rather he is including himself in the action. As if he genuinely wants to help. 

“Yes. It’s too dangerous to leave a dead monster this old out there.” 

“Old?” Jaskier moves closer to the body, closer to Geralt again, and something about him feels more fae then. 

Much like the previous night, magic rolls off Jaskier in waves, the air heavy with it. The ground around the lamia shivers and undulates, flowers suddenly blooming and dying. It takes a few seconds for Geralt to realize what is happening, so focused on the unnatural bloom of the flowers he is. The ground is slowly parting, rolling under itself and moving away from the lamia, which is slowly sinking into the earth. 

Jaskier sways as the carcass sinks almost all of the way, and Geralt catches him before he falls down. 

“What’s wrong?” He doesn’t panic, but he wonders if he missed anything, if the creature had touched Jaskier at any moment. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Jaskier dismisses his worry with a gentle tap to his chest. “You really are rock solid, that’s neat.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, “What’s going on?” 

“The soil is resisting against the monster’s body, that’s all,” Jaskier sighs against Geralt’s neck, his gentle puff of air sending shivers rippling through the witcher. “It’s taking a lot of strength to do it, and I refuse to pull more from the living trees and flowers around here.” 

“Take it from me then,” Geralt grunts. 

“What? No, absolutely not,” Jaskier tries to move away but Geralt holds him firmly in place against him. “I am not taking your strength Geralt!” 

“I’m offering, so take it. You are helping me, and whatever you need, it just has to be enough to finish pushing the lamia in the ground isn’t it? So. Take it from me.” 

“I’ve never taken from someone else, I could hurt you, gods I could kill you Geralt—“

His protests are cut short by Geralt’s growl, and then Geralt kisses him harshly. They are both covered in ichor now, and it isn’t the most comfortable kiss there is, but Jaskier still stops and melts into his arms for a brief moment. Geralt will count that as a win. 

“Take it.” He repeats roughly, cradling Jaskier’s cheek in his palm. “Please.” 

Jaskier sighs heavily, closes his eyes and leans into Geralt’s touch for a brief moment. “It’s quite unfair of you to do this, witcher.” 

He turns back to the body and opens his eyes, his hand finding Geralt’s. He takes it, squeezes it, and suddenly Geralt feels the magic he had felt the previous night pressing against his mind, his body, his everything, engulfing him completely. Everything in him is telling him to fight back, to disentangle himself from Jaskier and get away from whatever is taking his strength, but he forces himself to stay rooted in place, hand in hand with the fae. 

It takes less than a minute for the lamia to sink completely into the ground and be fully covered by the ground. Except for the ichor still staining the grass, there is no trace that there even was a monster here, and Geralt looks at Jaskier, a bit amazed. The man lets go of his hand then, and the sudden draw of strength is cut off. Geralt shakes himself, but he can’t feel much of a difference from previously. He is slightly more tired, yes, but not much more than from when he takes on a monster alone. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier murmurs and stretches slightly, his eyes tired and small suddenly. 

“You didn’t take enough,” Geralt growls and comes to hold Jaskier’s cheeks in his palm. “You can take more.” 

“No.” Jaskier’s refusal is dry and almost angry, so Geralt doesn’t insist. He wants to though, wants to protect Jaskier with all he has. 

“I promised to bring you back unarmed.” 

“And I am, Geralt. I am fine and well, all thanks to you. Let us go back now. I am in sore need of a bath, and that’s without mentioning your state, my dear witcher.” 

A hum is all the answer he gets before another kiss is pressed to his mouth, light as a feather and so fast Jaskier almost thinks he imagined it. 

“Very well,” Geralt only says, and starts walking back to where they left their horses. 

They find Hellebore and Roach exactly where they left them, both horses still eating grass lazily. Geralt makes sure that Jaskier is well seated, earning himself an annoyed look from his companion. They ride back to the castle in a quiet, contemplative silence. On his skin, the ichor dries slowly, and he itches to scratch it off. His clothes are going to need some serious cleaning too, but right now, Geralt can only think of Jaskier.

He wants to despise himself for the way his body thrums with the overwhelming need to have the man back in his arms. They have known each other for barely a day, this doesn’t make any sense to him, but all the same, it does. Whatever force made him cross through Gavaudan when he could have taken the road through the mountains, it’s the force that wanted him to be around Jaskier. Fate, destiny, whatever it is, Geralt wants to yell at it, but at the same time, he feels grateful for it. Jaskier is better a man than many Geralt had met, he has the certainty of that. 

“Are you done admiring me?” The teasing drawl of Jaskier is what brings Geralt back to the present moment, and he realizes that Roach has stopped trotting and they are in the court of the castle. 

The fae man has gotten off Hellebore and is grinning up at Geralt from where he is next to Roach’s head. He moves closer, now that he has Geralt’s attention, and his fingers trail over the Witcher’s knee in a distracting manner. He tilts his head to the side almost innocently, but Geralt can see the wickedness behind those blue pools. Fae maliciousness that thrums with human want, something Geralt is not immune to. Something he knows he could very well let himself fall prey to, and without any regret whatsoever.

Swiftly, he lets himself fall from Roach’s back and towers over Jaskier, slowly walking towards him. The fae only grins, moving backwards until his back hits a stone wall. He’s then forced to look up, and the light in his eyes is even more brilliant than before. Geralt’s heart pulses a bit faster at the sight. It’s him, making Jaskier reacts this way. No one else but him. 

“Don’t play with me,” he growls, low and deep, and with the way their bodies are slotted together, he can feel Jaskier’s shiver. “You don’t know what you are going to reckon with if you keep teasing me.” 

Jaskier’s hands slowly move from where they were against the wall, and push under the ichor covered armour, magic making it easier for him as his nails scratch the skin underneath. “What if I want to find out?” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls again, but he is weak to the touch of the other man and doesn’t push his hands away. 

“Is there anything you wish to say, witcher?” Jaskier has moved to nip at his chin, impossibly closer. 

Their bodies are flush together now, and Jaskier seems to have no care in the world that the ichor Geralt is covered with is also touching him. To be fair, Geralt remembers as he captures the man’s lips in a heated kiss, he had gotten a fair amount of ichor on himself when he had hugged the witcher earlier. Nothing worse than that can very well happen to his clothes. Why the fuck is he thinking about Jaskier’s clothes when the man’s hands are caressing his torso and lightly scratching it. 

He has completely forgotten that Jaskier had asked a question, that they are in the courtyard of Jaskier’s family home, or even that there was a contract in the first place. He is too busy bruising Jaskier’s lips with his own and running his hands through the soft, pliable hair of the fae in his arms. It’s a thoroughly enjoyable experience, one that is only broken by a loud neighing from behind them. 

Then, Geralt remembers where they are, and he springs apart from Jaskier. He isn’t ashamed, would never be, but what if anyone has seen Jaskier like that with him? Jokes and laughter are all fine around the dinner table, but at the end of the day, Geralt is a witcher with barely anything to his name, and Jaskier is some sort of fae nobility. Geralt could ruin him by simply being seen embracing him and—

“I can see the thoughts racing through your head, my dear,” Jaskier pats his chest lightly and kisses his chin tenderly. “Tell me what it is?” 

He is back against Geralt, seemingly content this way, and Geralt can’t find it in himself to deny the man this pleasure. “Your family leaves in this castle,” he manages to say. “Won’t they mind your choice of … companion?” 

Jaskier laughs slightly, not a mocking laugh, but rather a fond laughter that he punctuates with a light kiss to Geralt’s mouth. “I assure you, if they minded, we would already know. But since you are so worried, come. We’ll put away our horses, and then we can enjoy ourselves behind closed doors.” 

The thought of it makes Geralt reach for him again. “Are you sure this is what you want?” 

Jaskier looks a bit surprised at the question. “Yes, Geralt. I’m sure. I’ve always known who I wanted, and you are no different. The only difference is that there is something more here,” he taps Geralt’s heart and then his own, “that I’m not willing to let fade after one night of passion. There is something deeper I want with you, my witcher, and I hope it is the same for you.” 

He is so open with his emotions. Geralt would have thought that being a fae would mean that he was more careful in his wording, more tricky to understand, but Jaskier is the opposite of nearly everything Geralt knows of faes. In fact, Jaskier’s whole family seems to be going against the traditional knowledge of fae he has. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jaskier says softly, disentangling himself from Geralt’s arms slowly. It’s not a rejection, nor is there any sign of hurt or pain coming from him. “I know what’s in my heart. And I hope you’ll know soon what is in yours as well.” 

Geralt grunts slightly, overwhelmed by the need to tell Jaskier that yes, he can feel something deeper clawing in his chest. He can’t say it though, can’t make his mouth form the words properly, so he simply nods and goes to get Roach’s reins. He leads the mare back inside her stall, making sure the stable boy is doing a proper job of taking care of her. Jaskier is waiting outside for him when he comes back outside, and there is a newfound uncertainty in his eyes. 

“I can walk you back to your room and you can have your bath there,” he offers. “Get some rest too, I suppose you must want to rest after the killing of the lamia. I certainly know I do! I’ll even have food sent to you.” 

“What happened to enjoying ourselves behind closed doors?” Geralt asks, walking closer with a frown. 

Jaskier’s shoulders lift and fall defeatedly. “You didn’t think too convinced by the idea. If you would rather I stop my advances, and that we return to a friendship, I will understand. You were probably exhausted after killing the beast and you reached for me in a moment of weakness. Of course, I will keep that to myself and—“ 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Geralt grabs Jaskier’s chin lightly. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the minute you sauntered in that meeting room looking like you belonged sprawled out on a bed while being fucked rather than discussing important matters.” 

“Ah, is that why you were so gruff then, when we were all alone?” Jaskier’s teasing grin has returned and he licks the tip of Geralt’s thumb, pulling a face at the disgusting taste of ichor and leather. “Alright, bath first. Fantasies about you fucking me can wait, your bath certainly cannot.” 

“What about telling your father?” Geralt asks this, but he doesn’t try to stop to go find Lord Pankratz. 

He’s much too busy staring at Jaskier’s muscular back as he walks slightly ahead of him. He would follow the fae until the end of the world, the certainty of his heart on the matter is confusing. That he doesn’t doubt is what makes him doubt; shouldn’t he focus on the lust in his groin, rather than on the erratic beatings of his heart? Shouldn’t he be the thinking of fucking Jaskier and the sweet release that would come with it, rather than to ponder what life he could offer the fae man? 

“He can wait until dinner. I’ll let you have a break then,” Jaskier winks over his shoulder, but Geralt doesn’t doubt for a moment that there is some truth in this. “Also, I’m sure he’ll have heard very fast of our return, and of our little display in the courtyard.” 

Geralt groans a bit, some embarrassment coursing through him, but quickly enough Jaskier has gripped his hand and is making him cross a threshold where gold and silver are embedded within the door. 

The room is spacious, with plenty of space for them to move around. Geralt is, however, most amazed when he walks in the bathroom behind a quickly disrobing Jaskier. Abnormally warm, the humidity of the room clings to Geralt. It’s not unpleasant though, and once he has removed his armour completely, he finds himself enjoying it much more. Jaskier gathers his armour and grins at him.

“I’ll send those to be washed thoroughly. You might have to borrow some clothing before going back to your room,” he says a bit mischievously as he puts Geralt’s and his own clothes in a basket that he quickly goes to put outside his bedroom door. 

“You are wicked,” Geralt grunts as the naked fae passes by him again. He has the time to admire now, and he doesn’t stop his eyes from taking in the sight that is Jaskier. 

The fae is muscular, but there is also a softness that Geralt’s body, all rough angles and sharp edges, doesn’t have. He longs to taste that softness, to see what parts of his body make Jaskier sing for hours. He can’t wait to get his hands on him, and start tending to the fire burning in his companion’s eyes. 

“Enjoying the sight, I hope?” Jaskier’s teasing drawl has a lilt as he takes in Geralt’s body with the same ravenous expression.

“I could ask the same of you.” 

Jaskier laughs, but stays out of reach, his feet dipping in the large tub carved in the ground. “You could, but you already know the answer, isn’t it? While I, I have to ask for a compliment. I have to pry them from your lips, until there is nothing but a ragged breath left there.” 

“Poetic.” 

“What can I say,” Jaskier grins and slips into the water. “I believe I was born to be a wandering bard, not a stay-at-home docile little thing. And yet, here I am.” 

Geralt advances, barks a laugh. “You, docile?” 

“I follow the rules, I’ll have you know,” Jaskier’s smile has widened at the huff of laughter from Geralt.

“Your own rules, perhaps.” 

“Perhaps,” Jaskier echoes and then rises an eyebrow when Geralt attempts to come into the bath. “I do hope you aren’t going to dirty my beautiful bath with monster guts, Geralt.” 

Lifting an eyebrow as well, Geralt looks at the bits of dried blood in Jaskier’s neck and cheeks. “You’ll find yourself ill-suited to refuse me this.” 

He sits down on the tiles that surround the bath, intent on at least washing the worst of the grime off before entering the bath and obeying the itch to touch and taste Jaskier’s skin until he has forgotten what other tastes and scents there are to the world. Soft hands, with the faintest of calluses from sword handling and lute playing, reach over to his legs. From the water, the blue eyes of Jaskier truly feel magical, more mystical than real. He’s so focused on Jaskier, on the soft bite he can see he has left on his lips, that he fails to notice the inhuman strength tugging at his ankles before it is too late. 

He emerges from under the water to Jaskier’s bright laughter. “Don’t you look so beautiful, my witcher! Just like a wet cat, so graceful.” 

Geralt growls, and in a powerful stride, he is gripping Jaskier’s hips and holding him in place. This is no punishment, not for the fae, who looks like the cat having gotten the cream. Like he has been waiting to needle under Geralt’s skin and probe there, until he gets whatever it is he is looking for. Apparently, he has found it, judging by the way he reaches to bite Geralt’s lower lip, tugging on it. Teeth sharper than any human’s sink into his flesh, and Geralt groans. 

“What about the bath,” he asks when his lip is free and Jaskier now has his legs wrapped around his waist. “I thought you would want to be clean before anything else.” 

“Why, you don’t like me dirty like you?” Jaskier grins, his fae teeth showing as his eyes are back to an unnatural shade of blue. It almost looks normal, if you don’t look closely, but the blue is too pure, too neat, to be human. It makes Geralt’s blood boil, and the desire, the /need/, for Jaskier becomes more frantic. 

“I prefer you dressed in fineries,” he admits in a rumble, biting Jaskier’s shoulder and licking the mark he leaves there. Jaskier is /his/. “With jewelry on you. You looked ready to be fucked into tomorrow last night.” 

Jaskier’s moan is loud. “Maybe I was just waiting for you then. Such a shame, you were clean too yesterday. Now, you want us to separate so that we may be clean again. How dreadfully responsible of you.” 

Geralt growls and hoists Jaskier out of the water before following and settling himself above the younger man. “Fuck being responsible.” He bites the shoulder again, slowly going down to bite and tease the nipples of his companion. 

“Fuck, alright, Geralt,” Jaskier’s words come out short and he tugs on the white hair of the witcher to force him to look up. “Bed. Now. I’m not doing this on tile, for the gods’ sake.” 

Geralt hums his approval and picks up Jaskier again, who laughs in delight and tightens his legs around his torso. 

They don’t get a proper bath until an hour or so later, when they are both sated. Geralt lets Jaskier cuddle close to him; he lets him trail kisses light as feathers along his neck and shoulders. He even lets Jaskier take care of his hair, and the man’s tenderness as he does so makes Geralt’s heart hum happily in his chest. As if he has been aching for this touch all his life, he feels himself fully relax around Jaskier, something he is unable to do sometimes even in Kaer Morhen. He would think Jaskier has bewitched him, but he has felt the touch of Jaskier’s magic, and it’s not present in the air around them. Rather, serenity surrounds them. Serenity, and a feeling Geralt knows is present much too early. 

“You are quiet,” he grunts after a few minutes of silence from Jaskier. “What is it.” 

At first, the fae only hums, focused on detangling Geralt’s hair and pressing soft kisses on the back of his neck. When he answers, it’s careful and measured. 

“Did you know a fae can choose to only love one person forever? That they are… fated to meet one person that they can choose to love forever?” 

It feels too raw, this admission, and Geralt can’t breathe, so he says nothing. 

“When a fae finds the person the fate said they would love, their magic becomes linked to the others. In between faes, it’s quite easy, it means that they are able to access to deeper part of magic than they would alone. With mortals, it extends the mortal’s lifetime so incredibly that it is more than possible for the fae and the mortal to grow old together. If they so desire, of course. Fae pairings aren’t just fate pulling the strings. We maintain a choice over it.” 

Geralt still doesn’t know how to answer. Fear beats in his heart now, afraid of whatever it is Jaskier is trying to say. Afraid that he will either have to bow to a Destiny he doesn’t recognize, or he’ll end up breaking both his and Jaskier’s heart. He doesn’t know how to avoid it, how to make things right and to show Jaskier that he does care, even if so differently.

“My parents are that kind of fated pair that wasn’t meant to be fated. My mother chose a mortal over a fae that was clearly meant to be with her. She has told me that she has never regretted it. Not even when she argues with my father, not even when she screams and rages at him. The love she has for him, it goes beyond Destiny, beyond Fate. Beyond life itself, I think. Somedays, I see them, and I wonder what it would be like to love another the way they do each other.” 

He taps his fingers lightly over Geralt’s chest, huffs slightly as he feels the fear-driven pulse. “I am not asking you to love me forever, Geralt. I am aware we met yesterday. I can’t deny that there is a pull in me towards you, however. I know you are not my fated soul, because I’ve already met her.” 

The admission sends something like pain run through Geralt. Jaskier loves another?

“She left me long ago.” Jaskier chuckles. “I am not as young as I seem, my dear, and she did not choose me. I don’t regret it, in the end. I am happier here, with the choice that I have in my arms right now. If you were to accept to share my fate, at any point, I would open my powers to you.” He says this fearlessly, as if he doesn’t doubt that Geralt would use it well, that he would care for him and his magic without questioning. “But you are a witcher, and I do not want you tied down to me by obligation. I will not ask you to do so, and I will not cry when you leave. I will cherish the moments I have been given with you.” 

“What do you want then?” Geralt’s question is quiet, but in the silence that reigns, it is loud and clear. 

A plea for clarification, but maybe beyond that, a plea for love. Because maybe, Geralt wants to have this presence at his side, this knowledge that there is someone that will always want him, no matter what. And maybe, just maybe, Geralt wants that person to be Jaskier. Jaskier who had not for a moment made Geralt feel like there was anything wrong with him, who had flirted shamelessly and had revealed so much of himself in such a short amount of time it sent Geralt reeling at the very idea of doing the same. Jaskier who had been so distraught at the idea of not going with Geralt and not protecting his people he had let his power reach Geralt, but had immediately withdrawn and begged forgiveness to his parents. Jaskier, who is a better man than Geralt ever will be, 

“I want you. I want you to know what there is around me, what comes with me. I am not a simple human, I am not a woman either, and my affection might bring you your doom. And yet… I cannot find it within myself to deprive myself of you, even if it would be better for you. I am weak, my witcher, weak and wanting of you.” 

Geralt turns slowly, until he can look Jaskier in the eyes, and caresses the soft, plush lips of the fae. “Ask me,” he says roughly. 

“What?” 

“Ask me to be yours,” he repeats, certainty beating in his heart. If he has to bow to Fate, then he will. But he won’t deny Jaskier or himself what he can feel is only the beginning of them. 

“I… I don’t understand Geralt,” Jaskier looks lost, and he pushes a strand of white hair away from Geralt’s forehead. “You can’t possibly want that. You need your freedom, and we met yesterday and…” 

When he trails off, fear and hope mixing in his voice, Geralt kisses the corner of his lips softly. He doesn’t know how to do the same tenderness that feels so natural to Jaskier, but he can at least try his best. 

“You would not bar me from my freedom. You would not lock me somewhere so that you may keep me like a dragon its hoard. If I am not your first fated soul, then so be it. But I feel that pull to you, no matter how much I tried to forget it yesterday. So. Ask me again.” 

Jaskier’s eyes are full of tears, and Geralt doesn’t know if they are tears of joy or tears of sadness. They well up and spill over onto the man’s cheeks, falling into the cooling water of their shared bath. 

“Stay,” he whispers finally, voice breaking. “Love me, stay, Geralt of Rivia. Share my Fate and I will share yours.” 

Geralt captures his lips in a bruising kiss and holds him tightly. “I will share your Fate, Jaskier, if you share mine. I’ll stay.” He doesn’t say the other word Jaskier had begged of him, but he doesn’t need to. He will work up to that, maybe. Once they know each other beyond the need to be together, and the ways their bodies fit perfectly together. 

Jaskier’s tears keep falling, and he holds onto Geralt’s neck. Happiness pours out of him in overwhelming swathes that nearly drown Geralt in their intensity. Still, arms full of Jaskier, his heart feeling stronger than it ever has, he wouldn’t trade this position for anything in the world.

“What do you think of this?”

It’s a little bit later, and Geralt is allowing himself a moment of relaxation on Jaskier’s plush bed before he goes to his own rooms to get changed. His lover is trying on outfits, and every single one is more delightful than the precedent. He has the feeling he is being toyed with and teased, but he doesn’t mind. He is still naked, and he will have no issue pushing the clothes off Jaskier if the low tide of desire inside him becomes unbearable. 

The outfit in question is, as should always be expected of Jaskier, outrageous. His torso is fully showing but his arms are covered with dark silk that, when he moves, makes him look even more eerie than before. His lower half is no less sinful. A long black skirt is slit completely on the side, showing his leg until mid-thigh. Wrapped around his exposed ankle, a silver snake draws the eye upwards. There is no other jewelry so far, but Geralt is starting to realize that there is very little that will make Jaskier stop wearing jewelries. 

“That if you don’t put something else on,” Geralt growls, desire rising with him as he devours his love with his eyes only, “we will miss dinner completely.” 

Jaskier only grins and comes closer to the bed, putting his leg up slightly on a low chair, the silken skirt cascading away to truly showcase his leg and beauty. “Is that so? I wouldn’t be quite opposed to that.” 

“Your parents will be,” Geralt says and stands up, walking closer and grabbing him by the waist. “They hired me to kill a monster and they are expecting to know the results.” 

“Oh, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind waiting a bit more, especially if they know their son is taking care of their guest.” He wraps his leg around Geralt’s waist and presses them closer. “How could I not, when my witcher is standing here, naked and needing attention? It would be cruel of me not to take care of you.” 

His hand travel to Geralt’s ass and he grins playfully. Geralt rolls his eyes and kisses him, but he separates them quickly. 

“I won’t miss dinner just to satisfy your endless lust,” he says, but his own rough voice betrays him. “I’ll be going back to my rooms, and will meet you in the dinner hall. And put something decent, for the gods’ sake.” 

He gathers some large clothes that Jaskier had put out for him to go back to his room, since his own clothes were being washed somewhere in the castle. They are simple at least, just plain black trousers with a white shirt. It’s a bit too tight, but he’ll be out of those soon enough. And, considering the appreciative noises from the man behind him, he’s pretty sure it’s not such a tragedy that he wears those right now. 

Jaskier is so noisy, so loud and unashamed. He sings and laughs and fucks loudly, and there isn’t much that makes him go quiet. Geralt wonders why fate chose them to be together. Geralt is quiet, and while he doesn’t mind listening, he prefers silence most of the time. Though, he loves drawing out those sweet noises from Jaskier, so perhaps they can work. 

After being pulled into another searing kiss that he nearly has to fight his way out, he retreats to his chambers and gets changed. His clothing has been washed and dried in his absence, and he puts it on quickly, finding back familiarity as he puts on the all black outfit. He puts on a slightly tighter shirt than he would usually, a jacket that hasn’t been torn too many times, and doesn’t think harder on that. He isn’t Jaskier, he doesn’t need to dress up, and he doesn’t have the time to visit a tailor anyway. He has to do with what’s in his pack. 

After the incident of the previous night, he looks at his swords and wonders whether he should take them. Perhaps Jaskier’s parents won’t react well to their only son being bonded to a witcher, despite the warmth they had shown him yesterday. Perhaps they will want the bond to be broken and— 

Geralt stops himself from falling prey to his own misconceptions. He has no right to judge the Pankratz family this way, and he doesn’t believe he has anything to fear from them. He leaves his swords where they are and finds his way back to the dining room of the previous night.

Jaskier isn’t there when he enters, but considering that when Geralt had left him he still had not decided on an outfit, that is fully unsurprising. Lord and Lady Pankratz are already there, and so is Lady Armelle, who waves cheerily at Geralt. They do not hide their nature anymore. Lady Armelle’s ears are pointed and long, and her sharp teeth shine through her smile. She indicates the seat next to her again and he feels obliged to sit down there, exchanging a polite nod with her. 

“You’re back, and in one piece! No sign of a scratch on you, how marvellous.” She says all this while looking at him intently and Geralt wants to shift uncomfortably. “I’ve heard you brought Jaskier back covered in monster guts though, so I’m curious at how you managed to avoid his fury.” 

“Oh, I’m sure the witcher has more than one talent,” Lady Pankratz says slyly as she drinks from her wine cup. “Any of those talents my son is likely to appreciate.” 

Geralt chokes on his own drink and Armelle laughs brightly next to him. Lord Pankratz looks amused as well and his hand comes to rest on Geralt’s shoulder, patting it lightly in sympathy. 

“Come, my boy. We’ll discuss your payment before dinner. I don’t doubt that my son will take his time to be ready again.” 

Geralt bows his head at the two ladies still laughing and exchanging barely hidden metaphor about what Jaskier and him might have been up to, and follows Lord Pankratz into a small adjacent room. 

“I’ll pay you the coin owed, Geralt,” Lord Pankratz starts, but there is something a bit less friendly in his voice. “I have to warn you though. What you have decided to embark upon, it is no easy life.” 

Now, he is slightly confused. He didn’t exactly have a choice to become a witcher, but now it has been his life for years, and he doesn’t regret it or wish it different. 

“You have tied yourself to no ordinary fae,” Lord Pankratz continues, reaching for a small chest of coins he gives Geralt. “My son is not destined for the common life of a fae. He will rule one day, you must understand. He does not understand it, but he will come to. He will lead his people, our people, throughout time. He has his mother’s blood, and that makes him a descendant of the princes.” 

“A prince of the faes?” Geralt takes the chest, confused. “He said nothing of it.” 

“He is not in line for the throne, or so he thinks. He does not know enough about the fae politics to understand it as I do. You will have to help him.” 

“Why?”

A long sigh escapes Lord Pankratz. “He does not understand that we are a proper court here. This is not merely a little court outside of the Fae court. His mother, in tying herself to me, declared herself to be independent of the Fae King.” 

“I don’t imagine that went well.” 

Lord Pankratz snorts and shakes his head. “No, absolutely not. We are sheltered here for now, because my wife imbued the soil with her magic. But her wards are failing under the attacks of the fae army. We have kept it from Jaskier as much as we could, but now… We can’t anymore. But if they find him…” 

“They’ll kill him,” Geralt breathes out, something wrenching in his chest. No, he can’t have this, can’t have the love he just discovered he could have be taken from him. 

“Yes. They have already started by sending their monsters.” 

The lamia had been old, Geralt remembers. Older than any he had seen before. He had thought it a hundred years old, but it’s possible it had been older than even that. 

“Has there been any others?” 

“Not that we couldn’t take care of ourselves. The lamia was too powerful for us however.” Lord Pankratz looks at Geralt. “If we contact you again, for a contract, will you come?” 

“I’m not leaving,” Geralt surprises himself by saying. 

“You are not? I thought witchers simply accomplished their contracts and left.” 

“As you said, I chose to be bonded to Jaskier. If he is in danger, then I will protect him. Keep the coin of the lamia,” Geralt pushes back the chest. “I don’t need payment. You have a war to fight, and any enemy that uses monsters is an enemy that a witcher should fight against.” 

Lord Pankratz looks at him, slightly astonished. He resembles Jaskier then, with that sharp blue hue of his eyes and the way he holds himself, still powerful but full of something more fragile than the faes within the castle. 

“Are you offering your service to protect us?” 

“Yes.” Geralt grunts and looks away slightly. The memory of Jaskier’s warm body, of his noises sounding in the air, of the tears of joy he shed when Geralt had said he would share his fate… He can’t leave that all behind. Even if he has known Jaskier for a day. Even if it still feels crazy and surreal. Geralt may not trust his emotions, but he trusts his body, and his body is more relaxed and more at ease with Jaskier. 

“Thank you.” Lord Pankratz doesn’t draw himself out into overblown thanks, he doesn’t reject the offer. He simply nods, puts back the chest of coins where he had taken it from, and extends a hand to Geralt. 

When their hands are clasped, the lord’s friendliness returns. “Take good care of my son, Geralt of Rivia.” 

Geralt has never taken care of anyone before. He has barely ever taken care of himself, and the only being he can care for is Roach. But he wants to care for Jaskier. He wants to make Jaskier happy, and he refuses to let him get hurt or die. He will kill anyone or anything that even attempts to hurt Jaskier, and that he knows. It’s a certainty that vibrates in his body with such an intensity that denying it would be foolish. 

Lord Pankratz doesn’t let him answer, he simply pushes him back out of the door to the dining hall. Geralt allows it, and walks back into the hall, back to his seat next to Lady Armelle, only to stop before sitting down. 

Jaskier is in the same seat he was in the previous night. His eyes are lined with dark lines and his lips are a delicate pink. The earrings he has chosen are short and just small silver loops. But then, Geralt’s eyes are drawn down, and he notices that Jaskier’s torso is nearly wholly exposed, a large V of naked chest starting from his collarbones down to what Geralt can only assume, and hope quietly, are his pants. Or skirt. It’s impossible to tell with the table in between them. Jaskier’s arms are not naked of materials, but the sleeves of his top are slit and his muscular arms show through. The pale blue of his outfit only reinforces the starkness of his eyes, and Geralt finds it quite difficult to believe that a man like that chose him.

“Are you never going to sit, Geralt?” Jaskier teases a bit. “It’s better if you eat while sitting, don’t you know?” 

Geralt glares at him, but he does sit. Jaskier’s grin throughout the dinner is nothing short of absolutely distracting. Geralt misses part of the conversations happening because Jaskier’s being too distracting, and Lady Armelle huffs of laughter when he fails to answer her question. 

“I forgot how newly bonded can be,” she chuckles. “So enthralled by each other that the rest of the world fades.” 

If he had the ability, Geralt might blush, but instead he stares at her. “It is a kind of magic then?” 

“Not magic the way you hear it,” She replies with a shrug. “It’s your choice that ties you to him, not some random magic. What you feel is true.”

“I know it is.” He knows what Jaskier’s magic feels like. Had felt it course through his veins when the fae had used his strength to bury the lamia. “I can’t explain it to myself though.” 

“What, that Fate chose you two to be together?” Armelle sighs and puts her hand underneath her chin, looking at Jaskier who is laughing with a man over some shared jokes. “Sometimes, the pairings are unlikely. Though, if I understand correctly, Fate doesn’t have much of a hand in your bond with my cousin.” 

“He said that he chose me, but that there was still a pull towards me. And I…” He is hesitant to admit it, reluctant to show that witchers have emotions. 

The fae lady doesn’t need him to finish, she simply smiles at him. “You feel much the same. I understand. It must be a shock after years of being told that witchers don’t have emotions, that they can’t want anything, isn’t it? Even my own husband was shocked by the immediate pull he felt, despite only meeting me on the same day. And he is human. We don’t know how to explain it though,” she shrugs a bit, her hand finding her husband’s and squeezing it slightly. “All that matters is that it does happen. And we do love each other. Even after years together.” 

_Love._ Is that what Geralt feels? He knows that, on some level, there is the beginning of it. That deep ache in his heart is the first kindling of love, and he doesn’t hate it, but he is still confused by it. He wonders where the certainty that Jaskier is his and he is Jaskier’s come from, wonders what brought them together. He feels like he’ll just be a curse on the fae prince’s life. He is just a witcher after all, and witchers don’t make good homes, don’t make good husbands. Witchers are made to be on the Path, to protect humanity from monsters. And yet, he had just chosen to stay here to defend Jaskier. Because he _loves_ him. Because Jaskier chose _him_ over what Fate had intended. Jaskier rewrote Fate to be with Geralt, and he did that after one day of meeting him. And Geralt agreed to it.

“Geralt?” Jaskier tilts his head to the side. “Are you alright, dear?” 

He stirs himself out of his thoughts and nods shortly. “Sorry.” 

“Nothing to apologize for,” a soft smile plays on Jaskier’s lips. “You looked deep in thought.” 

It’s an invitation to speak, to tell Jaskier what was going on in his mind, but Geralt simply shrugs. “It’s nothing.” 

Jaskier hums and drinks some wine. “If you say so.” He turns to his father, smiling widely. “Father, we should hold a celebration for my bond! We should hold it now!” 

“It’ll take a few hours to be ready,” Lady Pankratz tempers while her husband nods. “We will call our people for a nightly celebration. When the moon’s at its highest. It’ll be fitting for the introduction of your lover to our court.” 

Jaskier grins and turns to Geralt. “You’ll have to put other clothes than that.” 

A bit lost, Geralt looks down at his own outfit, and remembers that he doesn’t have anything else that’s clean anymore. “I don’t think that’ll be possible.” 

Jaskier hums again, delighted. “We’ll make it possible then, won’t we?” 

He gets up, and Geralt’s body suddenly goes hot as he realizes that Jaskier’s lower half is covered in black pants that look startlingly like Geralt’s own leather pants. 

“Let’s go then,” Jaskier’s smirk says that he is fully aware of what he is doing to Geralt. And that Geralt’s assumptions about the pants are right. “We have to get you ready, don’t we?” 

He moves around the table, his parents rolling their eyes with some fond exasperation as he grips Geralt’s hand and forces him up. 

“We’ll see you all at midnight then!” 

Geralt is whisked away without any say, Jaskier’s inhuman strength forcing him to keep up. The worst in all of this is that he likes the way Jaskier is bossy and demanding suddenly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary of this chapter: they horny, Jask is a prince without really knowing, they horny again
> 
> come check me out on tumblr @saltytransidiot i'm dumb, gay, and love talking


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A celebration of the bond, a party crasher, and two very happily in love monster-killers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back from the land of angst! 
> 
> Geralt and Jaskier are so in love in this fic it's lowkey gross, they are too adorable :'') 
> 
> This chapter will set the rhythm for the next few chapters, I don't think we'll go beyond 10 chapters for this fic! The storyline is pretty clear and easy to follow, and I'm trying to keep it that way :) The chapters will now be around 5k each (unless I go crazy on one again...) and i will try to post one every week! at least. Listen, I'm making this up as I go here lmao
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

Geralt is pushed inside Jaskier’s room by the grinning fae, but it doesn’t say this dynamic long. Quickly enough, Geralt has his lover against the wall and is biting his neck, enjoying the sweet sound he makes under his ministrations. 

“You’re wearing my clothes,” the witcher growls, and presses his knee between Jaskier’s leg. 

“Just your pants,” Jaskier grins wickedly, hint of maliciousness in his eyes. “I forgot to leave a note to have them brought back to you, and when I saw them, I just couldn’t resist.” 

“You spelled them tighter. They should fit you much more loosely.” 

“Are you saying you’re too big?” Jaskier’s grin widens, and Geralt feels much less in control of the situation. “I just made them fit me. If you don’t like it, you’ll just have to remove them from me.” 

Geralt lifts him in his arms and quickly enough, they are back on the bed, which still smells like sex and Jaskier, and _them_. It’s a bit alarming, the easiness of being with Jaskier. Nothing feels unnatural, everything between them works, from the way their hips lock and their hands find one another to the way their breathes melt together until they are just one sigh, one intake of air, everything so harmonious it feels like a blessing. 

“Well,” Jaskier pants, slipping of Geralt’s lap with a satisfied smirk, “I can say that at least I was successful in seducing you tonight.” 

Geralt laughs, something low in his chest that rumbles throughout his whole body. Jaskier watches him as he does so, his mouth softly agape, his eyes so bright in the dim light of the room that here his fae blood is really stark. There is an eeriness to him, something so purely inhuman that it would make Geralt shiver if he were human. But he isn’t, hasn’t been fully human in a long time, and watching his lover like this, eyes glowing and teeth slightly visible through his open mouth, makes him feel more alive and desiring than a second before.

“I like your laughter,” Jaskier says, coming to rest his head on Geralt’s naked torso, listening to the slow heartbeat there. 

“Yours isn’t too bad,” Geralt answers, hand coming to caress his lover’s hair. He feels the thinnest of points to the ear and runs his fingers alongside them. “Bit like a bird. Pretty, and soft.” 

“I’ll take the compliment.” 

Kisses are trailed up his torso, and Geralt allows him a kiss, something that doesn’t have any of the heat of before. It’s tender, almost too tender for Geralt, but he knows what his chest feels. Love, as fast as it has arrived, has settled deep in his chest. It should frighten him, should make him want to balk away and leave Jaskier. Love is a weakness for witchers, something that can slow them down and get them killed. Witchers take lovers, but they don’t take husbands or wives. 

“Our bond,” Geralt wonders aloud when his lips are free again, “it’s equivalent to a marriage, isn’t it?” 

Jaskier blushes, cheeks tainting with red, and Geralt knows he is right. Blue eyes dart across the room, trying to find a way out of this conversation, but Geralt takes his chin in his hands and gently makes him look at him. 

“I’m not angry, Jaskier. I already agreed to being bound to you for the rest of our lives, what would a marriage be more than that?” 

“It… I should have told you so earlier,” Jaskier mutters but doesn’t look away. “It’s not a marriage, it’s more… An oath of love. We can be bonded and not married, but… as far as I’m aware that has never happened. It’s usually just that bonded pairs take times to know each other before being wed, and … Witchers don’t get married, do they? So I thought that I could simply be your bonded soul, and that would be enough for me. You don’t have to marry me, Geralt.”

He sounds so serious suddenly, sitting up, his feet gathered underneath him. Geralt has the sudden realization that Jaskier’s skin as a golden colour, not that he is simply tan. Rather, his cheeks, which had been red a few minutes ago, are now crowned with gold, and his body seems to shimmer in gold. _A prince of the fae_ , he remembers. Not human, but close enough to fool most people. The glamour around the castle is stronger than Geralt had thought. He wonders what he will walk into, when they get to this party that had Jaskier so enthusiastic. 

“I would be more than happy being your bonded soul,” Jaskier insists, taking Geralt’s awe-induced silence for disbelief. “I don’t need to be married to remain faithful to you, and I don’t need you to be married to me to know that you’ll show me the same respect. I know what I feel, and I don’t care whatever anyone else thinks.” 

“Dear heart,” Geralt says, the words foreign on his tongue, a bit heavy and strange, but from the way Jaskier’s eyes widen and he blinks repeatedly, Geralt thinks he might have to try harder to show his affection. “I wouldn’t mind it. We aren’t there yet, but what you feel, I feel it too” _I love you_ , he doesn’t say, but it’s there in every word. “We have time.” 

Maybe not so much. Geralt thinks back to the lamia, to the way it had felt like a monster of old. He thinks back to Jaskier’s mother’s reaction when he had announced this was what he suspected. He’ll have to talk with her, whenever he can. But for now, he pulls Jaskier in another kiss and holds him tightly. For once, he doesn’t want to think about what lies ahead of them. He simply wants to enjoy the couple hours of rest he has before he is present in a fae celebration.

Geralt sleeps lightly while Jaskier flutters around, excitement for the upcoming party seeping out of his every pore. A few times, the witcher opens his eyes just to see his lover sitting up on the bed, biting his lower lips as he observes different pieces of jewelry. He wonders, when he sees that, if he should be concerned about Jaskier’s love for beautiful things, his appreciation for jewelry and fine clothes. If ever Geralt were to leave, like he probably will once this whole war with the fae king blows over, and if Jaskier chose to follow him in this, then Geralt could not provide him the same comforts he enjoys here.

The life of a witcher is rougher than the life of a noble, even without said noble being a prince of the fae. Most of the time, Geralt sleeps in forests or in inns where the beds are infested with vermin. Baths are a rare occasion, space for clothing is limited, and there is danger all along the road. He doesn’t want to impose that to the beautiful fae, but he also knows he couldn’t even pretend to refuse him. As much as he would want to argue that it would be better for Jaskier to stay here, protected and sheltered from harm, he knows what the answer from the other man would be. 

“You’re thinking too much,” Jaskier says lightly when he catches Geralt looking around. “Do I need to distract you again?” 

His smile is impish, but there is worry behind his words, and he reaches out to caress Geralt’s frown, smoothing the worry-induced wrinkles. 

“Will you tell me what you are thinking about?” His touch is so gentle, and Geralt half feels like he doesn’t deserve such gentleness. He almost wants to tell Jaskier to back off, to stop being so kind and so thoughtful. He forces himself not to. He doesn’t want to lose this fragile love he is slowly building for himself.

“It’s nothing,” Geralt starts to say as he sits up, but he suddenly has a lap full of a clingy fae who pouts at being denied information. He growls, a low rumble that has Jaskier almost purring in delight, but there is no dislodging his lover. 

“Don’t keep it all in your head,” Jaskier insists, caressing his cheek. “Please. Talk to me.” 

“Would you ever give this all up?” He gestures to the room, to everything but himself. “All you’ve grown up with, all that you’ve ever known. Would you ever give it all up?” 

A bit of surprise comes over Jaskier’s face, and it becomes apparent to Geralt that, perhaps, they should have discussed some of this before their oath to bond each other together. Yet, he knows that, whatever happens, he is glad to be with Jaskier. If Jaskier chose to remain here, than Geralt would come back to him. Always. There is not a doubt in his heart about this. He wants to hate that this certainty is so present in his heart, but he also can’t bring himself to do so. Jaskier is his heart now, and despite the bond being not formalized just yet, he knows he is Jaskier’s heart too. They beat together in a harmony that he didn’t believe possible. 

“Yes,” Jaskier answers gently, and kisses him tenderly. “I would, if you asked me to. I have chosen you, Geralt of Rivia, and no one else. I know the life of a witcher is not the easiest, but I also know that you are the one I chose, the one I decided I would love. You are a witcher, and I’m a fae lord. It might not always be easy, and we might be separated at times, but this is the life I have chosen for myself. Would you deny me this choice now?” 

“Never,” Geralt says, almost faster than he has ever said anything in his life. “I am glad that you chose me. I am glad to share my life with yours.” 

Jaskier smiles radiantly, and the gold on his cheeks brightens slightly. It’s a wonderful sight, and Geralt can’t help but pry another kiss from his lover’s mouth. Before a kiss can turn into many others, Jaskier pulls himself back. 

“We don’t have time anymore for this,” he says with a pout, fingers tangling in Geralt’s chest with regret. “We have to get ready for the party, and for the official bonding.” 

“I thought our bond had taken effect when you asked me and I accepted?” 

“Well, yes,” Jaskier’s cheeks pink slightly, the golden glow fading to the blush. “But we also have to… Well, there is also an oath we must take in front of the fae court here…” 

“What’s got you so shy?” Geralt worries slightly. 

“It’s just, I’m not shy. I’m just a bit nervous.” Jaskier says and puts his head on Geralt’s shoulder. “What if I mess up and embarrass us both? It’s an oath of eternal devotion, so you also might not want to make it and—“ 

“It will all go perfectly fine,” Geralt reassures him. “You’ll be perfect. And I already told you, I want to be with you. For as long as you’ll have me. I think you should be more worried about me messing up. I don’t have a frame of reference for what I’m supposed to do the way you have.” 

“Oh, it’s quite simple,” Jaskier starts and explains it to him, some nervousness still trickling in his voice. He is calmer though, and once he has finished explaining the hand-binding, he gets up. 

Geralt’s eyes follow him. The muscles of Jaskier’s body are well defined and he looks, like he always does, absolutely perfect. The naked form of his lover is something that Geralt finds extremely pleasing, but he doesn’t know how well to say it to Jaskier. He doesn’t want to blurt out a simple “you look good,” which would be an understatement, or to try his hand at poetry. He is shit at it, and he would rather Jaskier doesn’t realize that right away.

“Are you done admiring my lower half?” Jaskier grins at him, and Geralt blinks, looking up at his face. 

“I was admiring your body,” he says honestly. “You are beautiful.” 

Jaskier’s cheeks are pinked by his blush again, and Geralt loves that sight too. “Well, aren’t you quite the charmer.” 

Geralt shakes his head, shrugs. “It’s just the truth.” 

“Truth or not,” Jaskier pulls him to his feet, “we both need to get dressed, and I’ll need to use some spells for you, so we should take proper time.” 

Geralt only smiles. 

He smiles a little less when Jaskier starts fussing about his outfit. 

“Your leather pants will have to do,” the fae says with a slight frown. “You do look quite dashing in those. But for your shirt… You won’t want to wear colour, I have a feeling, so I need to find you a nice black shirt that’ll show off your very nice chest and—“ 

“Do we need to show off my chest?” Geralt grumbles slightly as his lover waltz around him. “It’s not like they don’t know I’m a witcher already.” 

Jaskier gasps, almost offended, and swats at Geralt. “Yes, we do! I’m not saying put it on display, I would rather keep that to myself,” he grins and bites Geralt’s lips lightly, “but I want my people to see how lucky I am.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest more. He lets himself be draped in a dark grey dress shirt, and puts his medallion over it. The wolf’s head stares out proudly and Jaskier seems satisfied. 

“I would put you in a nice coat too,” he pouts slightly, “but you would have to remove it for the hand binding.” 

“You, balking at the idea of removing clothes from me? Now, I truly have seen everything.” 

“Very funny,” Jaskier says dryly. “Go get your swords, you are going to claim me as a witcher, not just as Geralt of Rivia, you need to have your uniform on.” 

“Should I grab some monster ichor then?” Geralt teases slightly. 

Jaskier only answers by throwing a bundled up shirt at him, which he catches with ease. Still, he goes to grab his swords back in his room, making sure that his own belongings are still in order, and that the swords are clean. He settles them across his back, the weight of them reassuring and well known. 

When he walks back into Jaskier’s room, the fae is dressed fully again. A translucent shirt shows off his torso, the gold and silver snakes and stars ornamenting the material lightly moving on the cloth, and Geralt can recognize an enchanted item when he sees one. Draped over Jaskier’s shoulder is a winglike cape, where gold mixes in with black, and it rises around his neck slightly. If Jaskier wore to extend his arms away from his body, he would look like a beautiful bird, one that everyone would seek to catch and admire all day. His legs are trapped in a simple looking white material, but a closer look reveals that the silver decorations from above are moving down there as well. 

In short, he is absolutely stunning, and Geralt has no idea if he is ever going to survive him, because he feels his heart stutter at the way his lover smiles at him coyly. A golden medallion, small and delicate, is hanging from his neck, and blue flowers crown his head. He looks like a prince, no, like a _king_. And Geralt looks nothing the part to be his companion. And yet, Jaskier chose him. 

“Do you ever wear anything that doesn’t reveal half of your body?” Geralt asks, because he needs to get his breathing back under control. 

Jaskier laughs, walks closer to Geralt and caresses his cheek. His nails are long suddenly, scratching lightly the pale skin of the witcher, but it’s a pleasurable sensation. 

“Are you complaining, dear heart?” The endearment on his tongue is more facetious, less serious and shy than it had been when Geralt had used it. “Do you want me to change into something more modest?” 

“No,” Geralt growls and grips him by the hips. “Don’t. Please.” 

Jaskier’s smirk is pleased and he tugs on Geralt’s medallion slightly, making the witcher lower his head. “Good. That’s what I like to hear.” 

The words are spoken against Geralt’s lips, their lips nearly touching, but before Geralt can claim another kiss, Jaskier is slipping out of his grasp and walking to the door. 

“Let’s not be late now. It would be quite unfortunate for us to arrive late to a party in our honour.” 

Geralt grumbles but allows himself to be pulled through the hallways, Jaskier’s fingers laced with his own in an intimate hold, something that makes his heart flutter as much as any love declarations from his lover. He is already in too deep, he is painfully aware of it, and he can almost hear the way his brothers and Vesemir would laugh at him. The White Wolf conquered by a little bird in bright outfits, he can see the irony in it. Still, he thinks they would all be happy for him. Lambert might not show it and Eskel would be teasing him endlessly, but he knows his brothers. 

When Jaskier pulls him outside, he is a bit surprised. “Weren’t we supposed to join the banquet again?” 

“We are, but a proper celebration for a bond is done outside. We are faes, and we are connected to the land under us. I told you, that’s why I don’t wear shoes.” 

“Right,” Geralt nods, “And this is going to involve magic then?” 

“It is a bond between two people,” Jaskier grins, and the moonlight gives him an eerie glow. In the darkness, his white outfit is almost glowing, so bright to the eye and yet soothing. Geralt blends in with the darkness, but Jaskier dominates over it. 

They walk further into the large gardens, flowers blooming even in the night around them, a testament to the presence of many faes. Their magic feeds the earth, nourishes it and makes it more fertile. Their environment molds itself on their magic, and Geralt briefly wonders what it would be to see the actual Fae Court. The trees, bending down and braiding together to form a throne for the King of the Fae, with wild roses in his hair and thorns adorning his hands… He can’t help but picturing Jaskier there, lord over a kingdom of adoring subjects. 

They stop and Jaskier looks at him, blue eyes glowing in the moonlit garden. “You ready?” A nod is his only answer, and he pulls Geralt ahead. 

The next step they take, light comes rushing all around them. They have stepped through a portal, Geralt realizes, disoriented. They are still in the gardens of Lord Pankratz’s castle, he can see the outline of it behind them, but it isn’t the gardens they just walked through. The place they are in is filled to the brim with magic, the heady scent of it nearly overwhelming him. 

“Welcome to the Fae Court of Dzikie Kwiaty,” Lady Pankratz says from the centre of the circle. “Jaskier, son of Anathea of the Jagody, you have chosen to be bonded to Geralt of Rivia, son of the Wolf. Do you stand by your choice?” 

“Yes,” Jaskier says confidently. His hand is still holding on tightly to Geralt’s. “I have chosen this witcher as my bonded soul, and if I must defend my choice, I shall.” 

Defend his choice? Geralt glances a worried look around them. The lights around them are moving as faes walk around, almost dancing, a slow and controlled pacing that surrounds them all. They are all in their natural form, but Geralt can see a few humans as well, all standing to the sides, dressed in gold garments. It is mesmerizing to look at, but Geralt knows better than to keep observing them. _Fae magic is powerful_ , he can hear Vesemir saying in a memory, _be careful not to let it trap you._

“Geralt of Rivia, son of the Wolf,” Lady Pankratz’s eyes turn to him, and Geralt’s shoulder tense, her magic twirling around him. “You have chosen to be bonded to Jaskier, son of Anathea of the Jagody. Do you stand by your choice?” 

“I do.” Geralt makes sure to keep his voice steady and loud as he says it, and he catches a glimpse of satisfaction in the face of Jaskier’s mother. He doesn’t need to add more to it; he is a witcher, and he always stands by his choice. No matter the consequences. 

“Then we may begin.” 

Geralt is pulled away from Jaskier by fae hands, and, while tense, he allows it. Jaskier had warned him of it. 

“You can’t fight back once you have given your agreement,” his lover had said seriously, caressing his hair. “We won’t be apart for long, but we have to be apart. They’ll give you the bond, and they will give me the spell for the bonding.” 

The faes dance around Geralt, maddening, and music starts playing. It fills the night, and Geralt feels intoxicated with the way magic weaves in and out around him, sometimes pulling him under its current, sometimes rejecting him. He hears Jaskier’s bright laughter a few times, but he can’t see him. There are two circles of people, and someone comes close to Geralt, wrapping around his wrist a long, blue ribbon. 

“You’ll need this, witcher,” she says, and Geralt recognizes Armelle. She is not golden, not like Jaskier and his mother are, but more bronze, and antlers grow on her forehead. She isn’t very old, Geralt can see that by the smallness of her antlers. He briefly wonders if Jaskier will have some as he grows older, away from his youth, and when he is about to speak, he is spun away. 

He almost crashes into Jaskier as they reunite at the centre of the meadow, but instead he manages to catch his fae in his arms. Jaskier’s grin is almost mad, too big and wild to be a human smile, and his eyes glow even more intensely than before. The music swells in the air, loud and overwhelming, and Jaskier falls down on his knees, bringing Geralt with him. 

The feeling of the ground under his knees bring Geralt back to himself fully, and he slowly takes the ribbon Armelle tied around his wrist. 

“To thee I bond my soul to,” Geralt whispers and slowly wraps the ribbon across Jaskier’s wrist. “I shall give my life for you, and my strength will be yours.” 

Jaskier smiles softly and repeats the words as he wraps the ribbon on Geralt’s wrist as well. Then, before the tying can be finished, he closes his eyes and starts speaking. The words aren’t _words_ , per se. They are more essences of things that should never be spoken brought into reality. They wrap around Geralt’s whole being, and he feels air rushing through him as the bond opens up. 

Brightness floods him, and he blinks repeatedly as he feels every single thing of the world around him. He can sense the worms in the dirt, crawling away from the noisiness of the celebration, can feel the way an oak is slowly directing energy to a broken branch, but most of all he can feel Jaskier’s _heart_. It beats madly in his chest, faster than anyone Geralt has ever encountered before. And then Jaskier stops his litany of words, and the world settles back into its usual darkness for Geralt. 

Jaskier is staring at him, eyes wide and mouth agape. Then, in a gesture that they won’t ever really be able to determine which one of them initiated, they are kissing under the cheers of the Fae Court. It’s full of bite, Jaskier’s sharp teeth pulling and breaking the skin of Geralt’s lips, but this is sealing their union, their devotion to one another. 

A yell and the smell of blood interrupts them. Geralt gets back up, a fluid movement that Jaskier follows. Their hands are still tied together, and they mustn’t break the bond. But something is coming, something monstrous and that is hunting for _them_. With his free hand, Geralt draws out his swords, giving the steel one to Jaskier, who looks at him and nods. 

When the monster bursts in, blood dripping down from its mouth, they are ready. The Stheno is the biggest one Geralt has ever seen, and its snakes are dancing on its head, blood slowly trickling down. 

“Kill the prince,” the stheno says, and its eyes settle on Jaskier. “Bring back his body.” 

The faes stagger away from the monster, not cowardly but rather, pushed away from it by a magical shield. Geralt’s medallion almost burns on his chest, and he holds the sword in his left hand tightly.

“Ready?” He asks Jaskier, and he doesn’t need to specify ready for _what_. They are newly bonded, the magic still rushing through their bodies and connecting them in ways that are beyond words. They are separate, and yet, one. 

Jaskier doesn’t answer, he moves, fast and gracious, and Geralt follows along. It’s hard to fight with only one hand, but Jaskier is by his side, snarling and full of anger. The fury that rolls off of him is startling, but Geralt can only focus on the beast that is trying to kill them. 

It is big, and the snakes that make its hair are venomous, so Geralt and Jaskier have to keep slashing at them, heads falling by the handful each time they strike. They are a deadly pair, equally match, their strength united in one goal. Jaskier’s magic is in the soil, but he can’t draw on it, not from what Geralt can discern. There is something about the beast, something that allowed it to speak and that keeps fae magic at bay. 

_At least_ , Geralt thinks as he yells, his sword rising and moving up to slice through the torso of the stheno, _whoever sent it hasn’t counted on a witcher being present._ He shudders to even think of what could have happened, had he not been here. The image of Jaskier’s dead body flashes in his mind, and rage overwhelms him. 

They fight off as best as they can, and finally, after what feels like hours, Jaskier grabs Geralt’s silver sword and drives it through the head of the stheno. Blood comes gushing out of it, and Jaskier’s echoing scream resounds in the night’s air as he pulls the sword away from the dead monster’s skull. 

Geralt is panting, ichor covering him, but Jaskier is the one who looks truly more vicious. His teeth are nearly all on his display as he bares them, and his eyes are wild. Geralt grabs his sword back, turning his lover back to him. Both swords clatter to the ground as Geralt brings their forehead against one another. 

“Come back, Jaskier,” he pleads softly, “come back to me.” 

The fan in his arms breathes heavily, white clothes stained with the blood of the stheno, and Geralt fears for an instant that it has poisoned him, but slowly Jaskier relaxes. His hand, still tied with Geralt’s, moves slightly so that their palms fit together, and they can intertwine their fingers. It takes him a few minutes, but Geralt holds his hand and his cheek tenderly, staying close to him. 

“I’m alright,” Jaskier breathes out slowly. “Thank you.” 

Geralt moves back slowly, looking into his eyes, before looking at the ribbon. It’s impressive that it is still holding, but the blood of the monster has tainted its blue shade, and Geralt’s mind briefly wanders. Is this an omen, a sign that his bond with Jaskier should not have been made? Has he doomed his lover and condemned him to a life of pain?

“You are thinking too much,” Jaskier says in a low, teasing voice. “Do you need me to distract you again?” 

Geralt huffs and kisses him, tender and lingering on the lips of the fae. “Yes.” 

A soft smile blooms on Jaskier’s face. “Will definitely do then. But before that…” 

He turns back to the faes, who are all huddled around Lord and Lady Pankratz. Lady Pankratz looks a bit shaken, the gold of her cheeks having sunk to a paleness that Geralt didn’t think possible of faes. 

“Don’t you have anything to tell me, mother?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh uh, some problems are brought back, and our boys are not emotionally stunted. Geralt, sappy and in love, in my fics? It's more likely than you think ! 
> 
> Don't hesitate to leave a comment, they make my day and help me write more :D Come chat with me on tumblr @saltytransidiot, I post about geraskier a LOT and you might glimpse extracts of unpublished fics... 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~ 
> 
> Another chapter, hurrayyy I made it :') 
> 
> We also now have an official 10 chapters count! I did a plan and everything, i'm proud of myself lmao   
> Though, knowing me, it might shift as I write along, but it's a good estimate so far!
> 
> This chapter gets a bit more heavy and the death of a child is mentioned so warnings for that ! 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy it :D

The garden is too quiet as Jaskier stares at his mother, and Geralt stays besides him, holding his hand. He doesn’t move. It isn’t his place to say anything, even if Jaskier’s father has already told him some about it; he doesn’t know the whole story, and this is a matter between faes. Despite his union to Jaskier, it doesn’t grant him the right to intervene. He can only stay by his lover’s side and wait for Lady Pankratz to answer her son’s question. 

The monster’s corpse is a pungent presence behind them, embalming the air with a nauseating smell. As a witcher, Geralt knows he is more sensitive to those than humans are, but the faes don’t seem overly concerned by it either, so he can only assumes they don’t smell the death and rotting from the stheno. 

“Not now, Jaskier,” Anathea Pankratz says, but she can’t continue speaking, because Jaskier is stepping closer to her, and so is Geralt due to their tie. 

“Not now?” He doesn’t yell, doesn’t rage, but there is quiet seething in each of his words. “A monster just tried to kill me, because I have to assume it’s me considering it was speaking to me, and called me a prince! So you’ll forgive me if I say yes, now! I do believe you have some explanation to give, and I will not wait for it any longer.” 

“Jaskier,” his father tries as well, voice full of regret and sorrow, something so deeply aching at seeing his son so angry, “we did not mean to keep it from you.” 

“How could you not mean to?” And this time Jaskier yells, and there are tears in his eyes. “How could you not tell me! Whatever it is, have I not always been a faithful and loyal son? Have I not been devoted to you, to our people? This beast, this monster, was sent to kill me, on what should have been the happiest night of my life! It could have killed Geralt! It could have killed _me_.” 

The tears are running down Jaskier’s cheeks now and Geralt slowly drags him against him, holding him tightly. Jaskier melts in his embrace again. The tears of the fae mixes in with the blood on Geralt’s shirt, but he doesn’t care. 

“We are both still here,” he whispers gently, only for the ears of his lover. “Right now, we need rest. Especially you.” 

“I need answers,” Jaskier tries, but all the energy has gone out of his body with the earlier yell. 

“I know,” Geralt’s voice is tender, and he doesn’t know if the bond allows for sharing emotions but he still remembers the harrowed heartbeat of his lover. It had been excitement that had make it thrum earlier, but now, Geralt can feel that exhausted pulse slowing down. “Answers will be here in the morning. Would you not tell me to rest?” 

“Only because I believe you to be too stubborn to rest unless I forced you to,” Jaskier muffles his answer out, pressing his face closer into Geralt’s chest. “I need answers.” 

“Jaskier,” he rumbles out gently, lifting his lover’s chin. “Please.” 

He feels the soft huff on his palm as Jaskier’s blue eyes blink rapidly, the moonlight catching on his golden skin. Even exhausted like he is now, even with the blood that is stuck to his cheeks and clothes, Jaskier is beautiful. He looks every bit the fae prince he is supposed to be, power and beauty pouring off of him. It is an enchantment, Geralt knows, a part of fae magic, but he doesn’t care. Even if he cannot voice it right away, he loves Jaskier, and he will fight him as much as needed if it means that he will rest. 

“Alright.” Jaskier capitulates with another sigh. He turns back to his parents and glares. “I expect answers in the morning. And I will not be denied a second time.” 

He turns at that, whirling away and only stopping to allow Geralt to pick up his swords. 

The walk, if it can be called that, back to their chambers is quiet, the events of the day taking their tolls on them. Their hands, Geralt’s right and Jaskier’s left, are still holding tightly onto each other, the blood tainted ribbon not even straining to hold them close. 

“You knew,” Jaskier says softly as they enter the room they now share. “You weren’t surprised when the creature burst in and called me a prince.” 

“I did.” 

“How long have you known?” 

There isn’t any accusation, just simple curiosity, in Jaskier’s tone as he crouches down to remove Geralt’s heavy boots from his lover’s feet. It’s a bit of a complicated affair with their bond, but together they manage, and Geralt answers when they are settled in bed, Jaskier curled up against him. They still have their bloodied clothes on, but they are too tired, too drained by what happened to care. Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s hair, taking in the soft scent of his lover, mixed with the smell of stheno blood. They’ll need to thoroughly wash again in the morning. 

“Your father told me before dinner. I did not mean to keep it from you.” He presses a lingering kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. 

“I am not angry with you,” the fae prince sighs. “I am angry with my parents. I feel blindsided by everything that just happened and I… I know that, had they told me, it wouldn’t have changed anything that happened tonight, and yet…” 

“They did not rob us of our happiness,” Geralt’s free hand comes up to caress his lover’s cheeks, his lips, his neck, every bit of skin he can touch. He craves any contact, desires it more than anything in the world. “The ceremony, even if cut short, was successful. I am yours, and you are mine. The stheno was unfortunate, but we are alive, and together, and there is nothing in the world that could change that.” 

Jaskier’s tears fall on his hands, and he kisses him tenderly. A hand crawls up under his shirt, slowly going under his clothes and caressing him, eliciting a soft groan from Geralt. 

“I need you,” the fae whispers, voice broken. “I need to feel you, and I can’t forget the way your heartbeat felt and I thought-“ 

He interrupts himself with a choked sob, his head resting on Geralt’s shoulder. “I thought I would never feel it again when the stheno arrived. It was so much bigger than the lamia, so much worse and—“ 

Geralt shushes him gently, kissing him, and slowly maneuvers them so that Jaskier is underneath him. “Can you help with our clothes? I’m afraid one of my hands is tied up at the moment, but as I recall, you have a rather helpful affinity to magic.” 

He tries to keep his tone light and soothing as he kisses up Jaskier’s jaw, his other hand wandering on the soft, transparent material of the shirt, feeling the snakes and stars moving there, almost seeking out his touch. Jaskier had left his cape outside, the gold material taken away from him when they had been apart, but Geralt is glad for that. It’s one less layer he’ll have to remove. 

He feels Jaskier’s magic rattle deep inside him, and it feels warm and like _home_. It feels like the man he loves, like everything Geralt has ever valued, and the clothes slowly are undone, Jaskier pleading for Geralt to make him forget the monsters, to make him forget anything that isn’t just them, their bodies, their love. 

Morning comes much too fast, the sun glaring in Geralt’s eyes as he blinks awake. Jaskier still sleeps next to him, peaceful and so young looking. There _are_ antlers slowly poking out under his hair and the golden glow of his skin is radiant in the sunlight. Completely naked like they are, Geralt can see his lover’s whole, unrestrained form as he sleeps. He’s breathtaking. 

“If you stare this much so early in the morning,” Jaskier’s sleepy voice says from where his face is buried within Geralt’s chest, and soon enough there is movement, and the sea blue eyes of his lover stare at him. “I’ll want a lot more than just gentle caress.” 

Geralt huffs and draws a kiss from the willing lips. “You are insatiable.” 

“I didn’t hear you complain yesterday,” Jaskier grins, but there is no heat in his words. 

He stretches languidly and sighs contentedly . When he moves his hands, Geralt realizes that the ribbon that tied their wrists together has disappeared, and he frowns. He had made sure that it was still there last night before falling asleep. 

“Magic,” Jaskier taps his chin and smiles. “The bond’s complete now. The ribbon doesn’t need to exist anymore, we are united, and that is all that matters.” 

Geralt grunts a bit and caresses his cheek. “Are you ready to speak to your parents?”

Again, another sigh, this one much less joyous. “I don’t know. They lied to me my whole life, and they told you before they told me. I don’t hold it against you that you knew, especially since it was so recent, but I wonder how long it could have gone on for if the monster hadn’t burst in during our celebration.” 

“If they hadn’t told you soon, I would have,” Geralt tries to comfort the pain he reads in his lover’s eyes. “I wouldn’t have kept it a secret from you.” 

“I know, but that’s not the issue at hand… But thank you.” A light kiss is pressed to Geralt’s lips. “I suppose they have a reason to not have told me, but it… angers me, regardless. Not knowing put me at risk, and I suppose it has something to do with the monster attacks we have had recently. The lamia probably didn’t wander on its own in our territory, and the stheno was sent after me. If I am a prince of the fae, I don’t understand why that is.” 

“I can’t answer those questions,” Geralt says, sitting up with Jaskier. “But I will be at your side when you demand those answers from your parent. Your father mentioned to me that this is.. an alternate Fae Court, to the same extent as the Royal Court of the fae within their territories. It would make your parents King and Queen.” 

“I realize that,” Jaskier huffs unhappily. “I wonder though if there is anything that I could have done differently, had I known. If I am to be a prince of the fae, I would have liked to know.” 

“When you used your spell on me, you kneeled to your father, and then to your mother,” Geralt says as he stands up, Jaskier and him heading to the bathroom. “I hardly think that is usual behaviour. I think you were raised as a prince, they just… did not mention it to you.” 

“I suppose so,” Jaskier sighs as he slips in the hot water, “I just wonder if I am cut out for it.” 

Geralt has to laugh there, pulling his lover in his arms and pressing kisses to his face tenderly. Jaskier melts under the attention. They exchange a few tender kisses, enjoying the few minutes of peace they can gather before they go confront Jaskier’s parents. 

“Dear heart,” Geralt says, noticing the way Jaskier seems to lighten up even more at the endearment. “You are perhaps the person the most fit to rule over people that I have seen. You might fancy yourself a wandering bard, but you have a heart that seeks to defend and protect your people. You nearly enchanted me because you wished to be able to see the monster that had been killing on your land. When I went to see the dead soldiers, you insisted on accompanying me despite your discomfort, simply because you believed you owed it to them. You are princely at heart, Jaskier. Your people would be luckier than most under your rule.” 

Jaskier is blushing by the end of Geralt’s speech, golden cheeks shining brightly. “You cannot say so many lovely things at once, Geralt.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because, my darling love,” Jaskier says and steals a kiss. “How am I supposed to remain princely and beautiful, and how am I supposed to seduce you every day for the rest of our lives, if I am melting under your praises?” 

“I don’t need to be seduced. You already have me.” 

“And you have me too.” Jaskier smiles. “Now, let us finish getting ready. I don’t want to be worrying about what they might tell us anymore. And if there is someone hunting for me, I want to know as well. Might as well get ready to face the monster in the woods, isn’t it?” 

The mischievous smile of Jaskier reassures Geralt. He hopes his words have been heard, but he will repeat them if they haven’t been. He knows Jaskier would do the same for him. 

Geralt’s pack has been moved to the room, and he dresses quickly, cleaning his swords while Jaskier dresses. Despite the somewhat urgent matter at hand, Jaskier still takes his time to get dressed properly. 

“It’s quite different from what you wore before.”

Jaskier’s outfit is dark, from head to toe. His sleeveless doublet shows a dark red chemise underneath, and the collar of the doublet goes nearly to his chin, forcing him to have a regal standing. The golden embroidery of the doublets lead the eye to the sword hanging at his side. Again, he stands proudly shoeless, but Geralt is getting used to that. 

“I thought I needed to look the part now that I knew.” Jaskier shrugs and Geralt sighs softly. “Shall we go then?” 

Geralt sheathes his clean swords and nods, following Jaskier out of the room. He lets himself be led in an unknown part of the castle and tries to memorize everything they come across, but he suspects that fae magic is imbued within the walls. His senses are getting slightly confused, the smell of lavender and roses wafting over from various places. He hears laughter and hushed whispers, but there is no one when he looks around. Despite knowing that it isn’t real, he can’t help the way his shoulders tense, his eyes narrow.

“Geralt?” Jaskier has stopped and frowns. “Are you— Oh! I’m sorry, I forgot. No one is meant to come to this part of the castle besides my parents. Servants usually stay away from here too, except for a few selected ones…” 

“Your mother’s magic is strong,” Geralt grunts, closing his eyes as light dances around the hallway. “I should not be subjected to it.” 

“Keep your eyes closed and trust me,” Jaskier says as he takes his hands and slowly starts walking. “I will not lead you astray.” 

And well. Geralt can only follow, trusting Jaskier blindly. It feels like forever, but also as if it has been only mere seconds when they stop walking. He hears a knock on a door, a hushed whisper, and then he is ushered inside a room quickly. The assaults on his senses stop as soon as the door closes behind him, and he lets out a breath of relief. 

His eyes open slowly and he takes in the new room, everything decorated warmly and there is even a painting of a young boy with startling blue eyes, a wide grin on his face, on one of the walls. 

“Is that you?” Geralt nods to the painting, and Jaskier huffs fondly.

“Yes, I was only nine years old when this was painted. I’ve been trying to make my mother change it for a more recent painting for years.” 

“But then, where would the fond memory of my baby go?” Lady Pankratz’s voice comes from a door on the right. 

She is dressed in a rather warm-looking blue dress, and on her hair rests a crown of wilted flowers. She looks remarkably like Jaskier as she stands in the doorway, and Geralt nods his head at her. Returning the gesture, she comes to sit on a comfortable chair, pointing to the two others in front of her. 

“Come sit,” Anathea Pankratz says. “I suppose I have quite a lot of explaining to do.” 

Jaskier doesn’t answer; he simply sits down and looks at his mother with cold eyes. His anger is back, despite Geralt’s best attempt. 

“Do not give me that look, Jaskier,” his mother scolds. “I did what I had to do to protect you, and I don’t regret it. Your father wanted to tell you, but I knew that you would be better protected if you didn’t know.” 

“Didn’t know what, exactly? You are so vague, are you ever going to truly explain, or should I just go find whoever sent that monster after me and ask them myself?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she answers, more tense. “You would get killed in an instant. But I suppose you are right. Now, it appears that I have to tell you.” 

Her explanation is slow to come forth, but when it does, Geralt sits in quiet astonishment. 

“As the only child of the previous Fae King, Aethe of the Jagody, I was fated to love a son from a noble house, that had been chosen at my birth. I was to continue the line of the Jagody, it had, after all, been the ruling royal house of the Fae since the Fae Court had been first formed. However… I did not agree with the way our magicians had tied my fate. It was… an unnatural pairing.” 

She shudders as she remembers it, and Geralt can understand that. Playing with fate like that is dangerous, and changing the fated mate of a would-be queen of the faes? It sounds to him like the most idiotic idea anyone could have. Jaskier had told him that one could change their fated soul if they found someone they felt was more suited to them, after all, it is what they did. But forcing onto another a bond? It sounds cruel and foolish. 

“Had I not met your father, I would have down as I had been made to do,” Queen Anathea, for Geralt sees it now, she is a queen in her own right, and he feels almost foolish for not having noticed sooner, continues, looking only at Jaskier. “Your father… I truly believe that fate had intended for us to meet, and for us to love one another. I knew the day I met him that I would never be able to love anyone but him. I think you may understand that feeling, don’t you?” 

Jaskier’s shoulders relax ever so slightly, and his hands reach out to Geralt, holding onto his knee. “Yes. I do. But you should be queen, shouldn’t you? Or is it your father who rages war upon us?” 

“No, sadly my father died of a wound shortly after I left my homeland. The one we believe has sent all those monsters after our people, after you, my darling, is the man I was supposed to marry. Lethenor of the Aksamitka, my supposedly fated soul. He is a foul, angry king, and the faes who stayed under his rule, who didn’t come to find me when my father died, are twisted faes, whose souls are being punished and enslaved. He took power when I left, and I regret it every day of my life.” 

Jaskier sits silently, his hand on Geralt’s knee tightening slightly. He is calm, a bit too calm to Geralt’s liking, who is used to seeing him flit around and move, never stopping, an impossible flurry of movement. In his dark outfit, with his face closed off, Jaskier looks like a painting, like he is more invention than reality, and Geralt almost wonders if this is not a dream and he is not entrapped somewhere in a mage’s lair. Almost. He knows the truth of Jaskier, has felt it under his fingertips, has enjoyed it beneath himself. He knows the truth of this place as well. 

“You are a threat to him because, as long as you and I are alive, we are both the true heirs to the Fae Court’s rulership. Even as a half-human, you hold more power than that spineless Lethenor ever will. You are the descendant of the kings who ruled on the lands when no one else did. You have the heart of the fae, the power of our people. You are the jewel of our people, my darling love, much more than I ever would have been.”

She reaches out to take Jaskier’s free hand and he lets her. She cradles it gently within her palms and kisses it gently. 

“My son,” her voice cracks and for the first time regret is on her face, sadness shining in her eyes. “I am so sorry that I have brought this upon you. Lethenor is a monster in his own right, and had I known he would hunt you, I would have surrendered myself to him years ago, pretended that you had never been born so that you would have been safe. I am sorry, Jaskier.” 

It is then that she truly surprises both Geralt and Jaskier. Leaving her seat, she kneels in front of Jaskier, in much the same manner that Jaskier had on the first night. She kisses the knuckle of his ring finger lightly, in a deferential manner. 

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, “And I do hope that in time you’ll be able to forgive me for the errors of my ways.” 

Jaskier is absolutely at loss of words, but he gently removes his hand from his mother’s loose grasp, and puts it on her shoulder. 

“Mother… There is nothing to forgive, please. I was angry but… I understand better now. And it is not your fault in any way that Lethenor decided to hunt us down. I wish you had told me, I still think I would have been better off knowing earlier, but I understand why you thought it would be better if I did not know. Please, mother,” he says gently and guides her back to her seat. “You do not need to bend the knee for me.” 

“You are a prince now Jaskier,” she answers and caresses his cheek. “You are aware of it, and the news of that will spread to the confines of this court, to faes you have never met. If anyone disrespects you, you will have to be harsher on them than you would be now.” 

“A prince,” he breathes out. “What am I supposed to do then? How am I supposed to handle this crisis? Are we going to fight Lethenor? Will he send more monsters?” 

“Maybe breathe in before you ask more questions,” Geralt rumbles, and the queen looks at him with amusement. 

“You are a good fit for my son, Geralt of Rivia. You must understand that now that you are bound to his life, and he to yours, you are no longer a simple witcher. You could be treated as a prince in your own right here.” 

“I don’t need any of that,” he grunts, the very idea ridiculous to him. “I chose Jaskier for who he is, not for his title and what he could bring me. I’m a witcher, not a prince.” 

She hums, smiling slightly. “I see. Good thing we are in need of a witcher to protect our prince then.” 

“Good thing indeed,” Jaskier says softly and kisses Geralt’s cheek, “But the witcher won’t be the only one doing the protecting. If I am truly to be the prince of the fae, to be your heir… Then I will defend our people too. I’ll find a way to make Lethenor regret everything he has ever done to our family.” 

His mother smiles proudly. “I do not doubt it.”

Jaskier stands up and sighs. “It’s time to go find the tomes in the library that may help me then. Geralt?” 

“Go ahead with out me,” he shakes his head. “I have a few questions to ask, about the lamia we killed.” 

Jaskier frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“He means that he noticed that the monster was older than it should have been. And that it had been kept alive by fae hands,” Anathea Pankratz sighs and stands up. “I suppose I was the one to put you on that track of thoughts.” 

“Your departure when I mentioned the lamia was a good hint,” Geralt agrees. “I wonder however how you knew that it was the lamia that you already knew?” 

“What would be the chance of an unknown lamia wrecking havoc around here, when I have put up magical boundaries to stop monsters? I knew they were fading, since they let in some weak monsters we could take care of ourselves in the past, but this? Only a lamia that had already gone past my defences would manage to cross them again. It is a foul beast, and I would have known if it hadn’t been her.”

“Was it kept by the Fae Court then?” 

“Clever witcher…” She sighs and looks away from Geralt, away from Jaskier who is still standing, shock on his face. “Yes. I… It was my fault that she was created. It was my blade that killed her child. I took pity on the monster, it was after all my responsibility. I knew it existed because of me, and I knew only me could redeem that mistake.” 

“You wanted to turn her back into a human,” the witcher realizes. “It’s impossible.” 

“Nothing is impossible to faes, Geralt of Rivia. We are beings of the earth, of the seas and winds. This land belonged to us before it belonged to the elves and then to the humans. I could have done it. I would have, I was so close.” 

“What happened, mother?” Jaskier has sat back down, reaching for Geralt’s hand. “What happened?” 

“She killed my first born,” the queen says in a broken voice. “I left because of that, not because your father and I had fallen in love. My people would have come to accept my decision, and Lethenor would have been nothing but a stain in memory, but that monster, that beast, slipped past the magical barriers and killed my daughter. You would have had a sister, had it not been for that beast.” 

Jaskier has gone pale from the revelation. “Are you sure it was the same one?” 

“I can’t be sure no,” she sighs. “But I don’t believe any other monster of that range could have slipped past my defences. The stheno was portalled to the ceremony, which is another sort of breach, but the Fae realm doesn’t allow for magical protection during the bonding ceremony. It might hinder the bonding of your souls and… No matter. It had to be her, yes. Lethenor’s final taunt to me.” 

Jaskier holds onto Geralt’s hand even more tightly and Geralt doesn’t know how to soothe him, doesn’t know what words of comfort to offer. After all, this has been a morning full of revelations, in between the much more real status of prince attributed to him and the dead sister. 

“I’ll make him pay for taunting you,” Jaskier says, all the anger of the morning coming back into his voice. “We’ll win, mother, and I will see you restored to your rightful place as Queen of the Faes.” 

“Thank you Jaskier,” she smiles sadly. 

She is about to say something else but an urgent knock on the door interrupts them, and no one has the time to react before Armelle burst in. 

“My Lady,” she breathes out, cheeks red with exertion. “There are men at the doors, who demand to speak with you. They are faes, and they hold Lenethor’s banner. They say they come to negotiate peace on behalf of their king.” 

Geralt, who had been halfway through reaching for his sword when she had burst in, stills in his movement. Why would Lenethor send his people to negotiate peace? It doesn’t make any sense. They should not be here, they are the ones with the upper hand so far. 

Anathea stands up slowly, her human form fading to leave place to the golden shine of the queen of the faes. “Then I shall receive them in the Grand Hall. Prepare our people, Armelle. All those within reach are summoned at court.” 

Armelle runs out of the room after a short bow, and Jaskier turns to Geralt. “All the faes within reach… All the our court will be there, Geralt. You… Lenethor’s men will notice you.” 

“I won’t be torn away from your side by a few meagre soldiers,” Geralt growls, low and heavy, and he touches Jaskier’s cheek, taking his chin in hand. “I am yours, and you are mine. I will not part from you.” 

Jaskier sighs softly but nods. “Very well. Then lets go to meet those traitors.” 

They are stopped in their midst by the queen, who puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Now that you know… You will wear your crown, and claim your rightful status.” 

She goes to a small dresser and opens a drawer, taking out a box made of dark blue velvet. When she opens it, Geralt sees a crown of wild flowers, roses and others, all wilted, until Anathea places them on her son’s hair. It blooms beautifully as it touches Jaskier’s head, and she smiles. 

“Here you are, my darling. The jewel of the fae.” 

Geralt looks at his loved and privately agrees. Jaskier, despite the shock and stillness of his features, is undeniably the most beautiful person Geralt has ever seen. His stern outfit doesn’t do anything to diminish that, and Geralt takes a quick second to press a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead before they march on forward, following Jaskier’s mother. 

They have a delegation to meet now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy what do those guys want uh uh... Tune in next week, at some point... Life is short and the days are long and I write fast so. 
> 
> If you want to see more of this kind of stuff, consider checking out my tumblr (@saltytransidiot) where I sometimes come up with genius stuff like The Queer Witcher Verse :'') 
> 
> Leave a comment or kudos as you will :D They make the writing easier and warm my lil heart :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet the delegation, and things don't go quite as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo folks! I'm back with this chapter :') 
> 
> It was an adventure to write it, but I definitely love this one. Although, the boys definitely refuse to cooperate with me and let me write short(er) chapters, so have a nearly 6k chapter. 
> 
> I've edited the tags, although I don't want to give it out right here, but if you want a warning, go directly to the end notes :) 
> 
> Enjoy this chapter!

Geralt doesn’t pace, he doesn’t growl, but that is only because of Jaskier’s hand on his thigh. His lover, fiancé?, is calm, calmer than Geralt is, and it almost startles him. After all, shouldn’t Jaskier be the one who is afraid? The other faes want to kill him, they want him dead because he represents the last heir of the royal fae line. But Jaskier is calm, his face a serene mask. With his crown and dark outfit, he looks truly like a king. 

“Don’t be quite so nervous,” Jaskier whispers gently, his thumb rubbing a soothing pattern on the inside of Geralt’s thigh. “They are a delegation for for peace.” 

“We both know that’s bullshit,” Geralt growls in an undertone, and Jaskier’s movement stills. 

“Yes,” he agrees and then takes Geralt’s hand in his own. “But they can’t attack me out here in the open. My mother’s court is gathered, and they would never be able to reach me. And I have you, don’t I? I’m safe.” 

The witcher wants to growl again, but instead he simply squeezes Jaskier’s hand. “I’ll do anything to protect you, dear heart.” 

His lover melts a little bit, his face showing some tenderness as he leans in and kisses Geralt tenderly. “The same goes for me, my love. Nothing in the world could stop me from protecting you.” 

Jaskier’s mother stands slowly next to her son, and they follow suit. They are at the far end of the largest banquet hall, and until now they had been sitting behind a large oak table, but as soon as the queen rises, everyone sitting at the table does as well. It’s only Jaskier, Geralt, and Lord Pankratz, but as they stand, the table disappears and so do the chairs. Everyone within the room is holding their breath as they all stare ahead, to the doors of the hall. 

Geralt hadn’t expected this many people to arrive within thirty minutes. There are at least two hundred faes crammed within the room, all of them dressed in the fae fashion and their feet rooted to the cold stone floor. _What a proud people_ , Geralt notes with some admiration. He is learning more and more about them with every minute passed at Jaskier’s side, and he is learning to admire them. He wonders how he could not be aware of the existence of a fae court here before. He wonders if humans notice the strangeness of the Pankratz family. 

The large doors of the banquet hall are slowly pushed open, and the delegation sent by Lenethor walks in. They are different from Jaskier’s golden, radiant fae form, despite the fact that they are in their own fae form. Geralt finds in them none of the exuberance of life that there had been in the faes the previous night when he had bound himself to Jaskier. These are devoid of life. The walk with the purpose of death on a battlefield: self assured, grinning, empty of joy. Their eyes are what surprises him the most. They aren’t the beautiful colours that Geralt has seen in many faes. They are orbs of crimson red, set within an oily, slippery looking skin. It reminds him of a rotten fish’ complexion. 

Jaskier’s hand never leaves his own. Their fingers are intertwined and the touch is grounding to Geralt, who resists the urge to draw his silver sword. Those faes are _wrong_. He can’t explain why, not right now, but there is something in the eyes that look at the royal family, something that brings a sickness to his stomach. They don’t feel like faes, they feel like _monsters_. Geralt has not felt even once that the faes in Queen Anathea’s court were monsters. Even the first evening, when Jaskier startled him, he had been in awe more than he had been afraid. Now, there is only disgust and a crawling desire to see them gone. 

The murmurs rising in the hall seem to agree with him. A wide path is created for the delegation of five faes who walk in, and none of the faes in this court even dares to brush against them. Those faes have the thrum of curses and dark magic around them. Jaskier’s lips curl in disgust slightly. 

“What a pleasure to see you again, princess Anathea,” the fae leading the delegation says, bowing low and grinning widely. His teeth are an ashen color as they reveal their fanged appearance. “King Lenethor sends his greetings.” 

“Then he can keep them,” Anathea keeps her calm composure, her golden glow undiminished by the presence of the delegation. “This is the court of Queen Anathea and Lenethor’s authority is not recognized here. Speak your mind and be gone.”

“Certainly, your highness,” the fae says, bowing again. “I am Naasrin, King Lenethor’s most trusted advisor. Those are my companions, all who have distinguished themselves in the eyes of our Lord and—“ 

“I didn’t ask for introductions, Naasrin,” Anathea snaps. “State your business at my court.” 

From the corner of his eyes, Geralt notices her husband reaching for her hand, holding it tightly. They are bonded too, he reminds himself. They share a life, a soul, a heart. Just like Jaskier and him. 

“Yes, of course, of course,” Naasrin says with another bow, and it starts to grate at Geralt’s nerves. 

There is something truly unnerving about his voice. It’s too smooth, too slippery. It doesn’t ring human, doesn’t ring _real_. Geralt wonders if a spell isn’t creating that effect. It would explain why the voice is so unlike all the others he has ever heard before. Even the Stheno’s voice, as hideous and disheartening it had been, had had more of a grounding sensation. Naasrin’s voice in comparison is surreal in the worst way possible. 

Unfortunately, he keeps speaking. “My king charged me to greet your heir as well, Jaskier, is it not? Such a grandiose name for the son of a former princess of the fae.” He grins again, and then his eyes settle on Geralt, and a shadow passes there. “I see you have invited a witcher at your court, Lady Anathea. Quite unfortunate, when we come in peace, and—“ 

“The witcher,” Jaskier glares at Naasrin. “Is my bonded soul. If you do not present him, as well as my father, the proper respect due to a consort of the royal family, then I will have your head severed from the rest of your hideous little body.” 

“Jaskier,” his mother scolds in an undertone, but there is a pride in her voice that makes Geralt half smile as she turns back to Lenethor’s envoy. “If you must be present at this court, then you will indeed present your respects to my husband and my son in law, or this delegation will be sent back to Lenethor with a member less.”

Naasrin has stiffened at Jaskier’s attack, but his slick smile is back and he bows to Lord Pankratz first, and then to Geralt. It disgusts him to have this fae bow to him, in such a clear follow of protocol that it is nearly insulting. 

“All my apologies, my lords. I did not realize that you were the bonded souls of Lady Anathea and her son.” The barely veiled insult, the refusal to call Anathea by her royal title, it all makes it so much harder for Geralt not to reach for his sword. “We are however truly coming in peace, and we want to avoid any bloodshed, as much as is possible. Are you not amenable to that?” 

“Your lord was the one to send monsters on my lands first,” Anathea answers, her back straight and head held high. “He is the one who declared war by interrupting a bonding ceremony.” 

“A misguided error on our part,” Naasrin agrees, lowering his head in a nearly apologetic manner. “But I assure you, the faes responsible for this decision have been punished by our good king Lenethor, who does not wish to see any fae blood shed. Especially not the one of his fated mate.” 

Lord Pankratz laughs at that, and this time Geralt looks at him. Jaskier’s father is a simple looking man who shares many a feature with his son, but what had struck Geralt most when he had first met him was the aura of calm. Geralt had found him an honourable man, seeking peace and harmony within his lands. Now, Geralt isn’t so sure. Lord Eryos Pankratz has a glint in his eye as he lets go of his wife’s hand that speaks of anger and bitterness. Something about his slow descent towards Naasrin is inhuman. _A bond to the Queen of the Faes_ , Geralt reminds himself. Jaskier had said that bonded pairs shared their powers and their lifetimes. He is starting to believe that perhaps, they share a bit more than that. 

“Your _king_ ,” Eryos spits the word out with as much insult as possible, and the hall grows deadly quiet, no breath being taken as Naasrin and Eryos come face to face. “Has no claim over my wife. She chose me, and tied her soul to mine. The threads of fate have been undone more than three centuries ago when she chose me. If you dare repeat those words, your tongue shall be the next meal served at Queen Anathea’s dinner, and I shall personally enjoy it. Your _king_ is not her fated mate; I am.” 

Naasrin steps back slightly, fear shining in his eyes, and Jaskier smirks in satisfaction. Something like pride and satisfaction runs through their bond, and Geralt can’t help but wonder how little of this threat is for show. He wholly expects Lord Pankratz to decapitate the offending fae, but instead, he goes back to Anathea’s side and bows his head to her. A smile graces her features, and Geralt realizes suddenly that this is approved behaviour. There is nothing out of the ordinary here, and this is why the three Pankratz are so comfortable and easy with their power. They wield threats like Geralt his swords; there is nothing that can stop them, and they are well aware of it. 

“You were saying?” Anathea tilts her head. “Something about avoiding blood shed, was it?” 

Naasrin nods, his ashen skin even paler now. “Yes, your Highness. If you would be so inclined, we would like to discuss terms of… peace with you.” 

“Then discuss.” Anathea says, and suddenly large chairs of roses and bushes grow behind each of the royal family, including Geralt. He is a bit at loss, but Jaskier makes him seat, their hands still linked to get together. 

It is a long afternoon. The faes with Naasrin bring up some proposals, but they are all barely veiled ways of making Anathea admits that she’s no longer the rightful Queen of the Faes, or that Jaskier is not the rightful prince. Geralt doesn’t speak up, only listens. The rest of the court is silent, an oppressive presence around the delegation, and a few times he sees them looking around with their hands on their swords. They are nervous, more than they should be if they truly came in peace, and it makes him smirk slightly. Jaskier feels his amusement then and shoots him an amused look back. He can almost hear him saying _behave_. 

Overall, Geralt realizes that there is nothing that will come of it that day. It’s useless for them to have come; the Pankratz are not budging from their position, and there are too many people present for the delegation from Lenethor to insist. Anathea seems pleased whenever the crowd presses a bit closer at an offensive suggestion. There is something deeply enchanting about how they all move as one, and the contrast with the newcomers is even starker. They lack grace, lack the beauty that is inherent to the rest of the faes present. It ticks him, that wrongness. He can feel the itch of a curse, the wrongness of the faes. It’s not right, they aren’t right. 

“This conversation is leading us nowhere,” Queen Anathea says with a suffering sigh, looking at Naasrin with an acrid look. “You have come this way for nothing, I’m afraid. You may leave now and return to your lord. I’m sure he is more than excited to see you coming back, empty handed.” 

“I’m sure King Lenethor will be more than disappointed,” Naasrin bows low again. “May we ask for your hospitality for tonight? The road is long, and our conversation, as enlightening as it was, tired my companions and I.” 

Anathea bristles, and Jaskier stiffens. Geralt frowns and looks at his lover. He is furious, but Geralt doesn’t know why. Anathea can simply refuse them and send them on their way, especially after the way they have insulted them all so subtly throughout the afternoon. Geralt is growing rather tired too, and he wants to get back to Jaskier’s room, kiss his lover, and make him forget about all the unpleasantness of the day. Maybe they could draw a bath again, and he could devour his lover whole, cherish him and listen to his sweet noises of pleasure. That would be quite the good end of the day.

“I would never dare refuse hospitality to such illustrious guests,” Anathea spits the words out. “However, as you can see, my court has no place for anyone anymore. You may dine with us, and then leave. It should leave you plenty rest.” 

Jaskier is so stiff next to Geralt, gripping his hand so tightly it hurts. His claws are digging slightly into Geralt’s skin, and his eyes are burning with unhidden fury. While all of it is rather beautiful, Geralt still doesn’t understand. 

“Your highness,” Jaskier lets go of Geralt’s hand and kneels at his mother’s knee. “May I request to be allowed to dine privately with my bonded soul?” 

The silence in the room shifts from oppressive to ripe with surprise. The only guess Geralt can make is that this request is somewhat offensive, especially towards the guests, but it does also puts Anathea in a delicate position. She has to decide whether to grant her son his wish, or whether she should act as a Queen and insist that her heir join the royal table. 

“Your presence is required for the banquet of tonight, Prince Jaskier,” she announces loudly, putting her hand on his cheek. “You may return to your rooms and prepare yourself, as well as your husband, for the dinner with our guests.” She turns back to the crowd. “You are all invited to the celebration of this evening. The banquet shall start in an hour, in this very hall.” 

Naasrin bows and Geralt can see a smirk on his face as he does. He is clearly planning something, getting ready to hurt Jaskier tonight. Or perhaps Anathea, or even Eryos. Geralt won’t let it happen. Jaskier and his family have welcomed him and have shown him nothing but kindness, and despite the little amount of time since he met them, Geralt knows they are good people. If war is brewing and Lenethor resorts to using unsavory methods such as backstabbing and attacking his hosts, then Geralt will strike back. He needs to send words to the other witchers too. He doubts that Lambert or Eskel is nearby, but he had crossed paths with Aiden two months back. His brother’s lover had been just back from a hunt, and he had talked of meeting with Lambert soon. Maybe Geralt is in luck. 

Jaskier grabs Geralt’s hand again. “Come then, my love, we have a banquet to get ready for.” 

Geralt follows him, and they pass amidst the delegation of Lenethor. From this close, they are even more bearer of ill omens than just their looks had led him to believe. They smell of crushed leaves in autumn, decomposing slowly in the dirt, and rotting animals left to be picked on by predators out of luck. He can’t help but frown and scrunch his nose. It’s overwhelming, and he is glad when they leave the banquet hall. 

“How dare they!” Jaskier explodes as he slams the door to their room open, fury making his movement too strong and sending sparks of the stone flying all over. 

He doesn’t seem to care, storming inside the room and tearing at his clothing with harsh gesture. It would be an alluring sight, but Geralt can feel his simmering rage, and he isn’t willing to tell Jaskier that he is arousing at the moment. He has a feeling he would get something thrown at him if he did. 

“What happened exactly?” He asks, closing the door and pushing with his foot the bits of stone. “Why didn’t your mother toss them out of the castle as soon as she declared the negotiation void?” 

“They invoked the law of hospitality,” Jaskier snarls, not at Geralt but at himself. He breathes in, his eyes glowing. “One of our oldest law, tied to our very essence as faes.” 

Geralt comes to drape himself over him and kisses his neck gently, hugging him tightly. “Calm down, my heart. Explain it to me?” 

Jaskier breathes in deeply, takes a few seconds to calm down. “When elves and humans first entered into contact with our people, the faes created a few universal laws that tied into our magic, our whole beings. One of those is the law of hospitality. No matter our dispute with one another, we must provide shelter if hospitality is invoked. It’s a very powerful urge, and it forces the host’s hand when demanded. Usually, the law of hospitality is invoked in the other way. The host invites, offering their hospitality to their guests. Then, the guests are free to accept or reject the offer, although it is considered a great shame upon the host if you reject.” 

“Your mother did not grant them full hospitality,” Geralt rumbles gently, helping to undress Jaskier slowly. He keeps his movements measured and calm, making sure that there is nothing that Jaskier has to do but wind down in his arms. “Are Kings and Queens not subject to that law?” 

“Of course they are,” Jaskier protests, almost snapping, but he sighs and lets his head fall backwards onto Geralt’s shoulder, staring at the ceiling. “She is just stronger than most. She had been anticipating it. That’s why she called the whole court, I think. The lives of faes cannot be put at risk, so the law would have been lenient towards that… Offering to share your meal, and your hearth, for an evening is considered a great honour still, so of course they couldn’t protest and insist. If they had…” 

“They haven’t,” Geralt soothes and finishes pushing off his lover’s doublet. “They won’t stay for longer than dinner with your family, and then they will be gone.” 

“That they will be gone makes me more anxious than them being here,” the fae prince turns and cuddles into Geralt’s arms, burying his face in the Witcher’s neck. “Only the gods know what they will do once they are out of here. Today has already been so overwhelming and I… I’m scared of losing my family, my people. I’m scared of losing you, and we have been bonded for only a day…” 

Geralt’s hands work at undressing his lover gently. “We just need to get through tonight, Jaskier. Tonight, and then we will deal with Lenethor properly, and you’ll bring back peace to your mother. You’re not losing me, not anytime soon. I swear to be by your side, as long as you will want me to.” 

“Always,” Jaskier hiccups, tears running down his face. “I want you by my side until the day I die.”

“Then always you shall have me,” Geralt promises, and he lifts up Jaskier’s chin tenderly. “I am yours. You have my heart, and I have chosen to be yours, so please, dear heart. Do not mourn a loss that has not occurred.” 

Jaskier hiccups again, his tears slowly stopping. “You are turning into quite the poet, my dear.” 

Geralt shrugs and kisses him lightly. “Only for you.” 

They trade tender kisses for a few minutes before the prince steps back with a sigh. “You certainly have made quite the quick work of my clothing,” he chuckles and finishes undressing. “I need to wear something that will make quite the impression.” 

“So, anything you wear then?” Geralt grins at the roll of eyes he gets. “What do you have in mind then?”

There is a hum coming from his lover as he sidesteps his hold and walks to his wardrobe. Geralt watches him, toys with his medallion. There had been something so wrong about the other faes. He hesitates to bring them up to Jaskier, not after he just calmed down from his outburst. It can’t hurt to wait for a few more hours. In the morning, when they are long gone, then Geralt will mention what he felt to Jaskier and his parents. Perhaps to Armelle too. The young lady seemed to be quite the presence in the court. 

“What do you think of this?” Jaskier is holding up a long piece of a glittering looking material. “You think that would make the right impression?” 

To be quite honest, Geralt has a hard time picturing what the clothing will look like once it’s worn, but he shakes his head still. “Too much glitter.” 

The pout on his lover’s lips makes him chuckle, but after a few seconds, Jaskier nods. “I think you’re right. This is a serious matter, after all. Darker color… Maybe I should wear black, to match with you?” 

“So I get to stay in this outfit?” Geralt teases, pulling at his shirt. “Here I thought you would want to dress me up and make me pretty like you.” 

“Don’t give me ideas,” Jaskier grins, his sharp teeth showing. “But perhaps you’re right. Perhaps you should wear something different…” 

Geralt chuckles. “You aren’t serious, are you?” 

It turns out that Jaskier is very much serious about it, and Geralt quickly finds himself stuffed into a dark blue outfit. Jaskier seems very pleased when he lets him pulls the clothes on him, and there is little resistance in Geralt. He loathes the idea of making Jaskier unhappy in anyway, and he can handle a change of outfit for the evening. The pants are tight, but Jaskier grins again, pressing a biting kiss on his neck, so Geralt stops his complaining. 

“Am I to your satisfaction now?” He runs his hands over Jaskier’s naked torso as he asks. 

The fae has only put on a loose skirt for now, and it astounds Geralt that it only makes the fae more beautiful. Before, he would have said that seeing a man in woman’s clothing was quite ridiculous, but now, as he sees Jaskier wearing all kind of clothing, he realizes there isn’t any sort of manly or womanly clothing here. There is Jaskier, wearing the clothes he wants, and looking more than delicious in every single outfit. 

“You always are,” Jaskier answers softly and gives him a gentle kiss. “And to be quite honest, I like you in black. You are Consort to the Prince now though and I know it might not be what you wanted but… We chose each other, right? And I didn’t know until after the ceremony so I couldn’t even warn you but—“

“I did though,” Geralt reminds him, stopping in the anxious rambling. “I chose you anyway. I doubt faes will want me to intervene in their affairs anyway, and I’m content staying on the side to wait for you to come back to my arms.” 

Jaskier’s bright smile is worth all the difficulty Geralt has to put his feelings to words. He has been doing his best, and with Jaskier’s presence, he finds it much easier. There is something so easy about being with him. Even before they bound their souls together. Maybe witchers also have soulmates, he ponders. He certainly knows he has found his own. 

“Alright then,” Jaskier sighs happily. “Sit down, I’ll get dressed properly.” 

Geralt nods and turns his attention to his bag. Jaskier doesn’t need him right now, and he will call him to attention when he wants his opinion. He rummages through his belongings, trying to locate the right tool. He rarely uses the xenovox, but they can come in handy. He still doesn’t really know how it works; Vesemir had been rather vague on the explanation when he had handed them all their own. He just knows that he can place a message in it and the box will have it relayed to whichever box it is connected to. And since Geralt’s one is connected to the other wolves’, it will serve the good purpose of announcing the imminent fae war. 

It takes him not more than five minutes to write down the message on some scrap of paper and tuck into the xenovox. He has no idea if it will work or if it will finally be the time it breaks on him, but he has nothing to lose by trying. 

“What’s this?” Jaskier’s curiosity makes him look up, and the answer dies on his lips as he sees his outfit. 

Jaskier’s hands are working at tying a bodice around his torso, his waist looking smaller by the second as he does, and it gives him even more of a regal look. Geralt can’t help himself, he stands up and comes to bat Jaskier’s hands away. 

“Let me,” he says in a low rumble, and Jaskier’s satisfied smirk tells Geralt all that he needs to know. It isn’t only on their guests that Jaskier wanted to make an impression. _Good_.

The leather of the lacing is pliable and soft underneath Geralt’s fingers, signalling quite clearly that this is a favoured piece of clothing. Usually, Geralt sees it one women and does not think twice of it. In brothels, whores use it to stick out their chests, make themselves more appealing to some patrons. But here, Jaskier is wearing it like it is common of men, of anyone really, to be wearing it. 

“You haven’t answered my question,” Jaskier teases as Geralt ties his bodice properly, hardly a hitch in his breathing. “What was that box you were putting a message in?” 

“A xenovox.” The words are difficult on his tongue. His mind is preoccupied by Jaskier, by the thoughts of what else his lover could wear. “A communication device, created by mages. My brothers and I all have one, in case of emergencies.” 

“Were you telling them of our betrothal then? Or of the war on our doorstep?” 

“The war,” Geralt says and caresses Jaskier’s chin when the man pouts. “I’ll tell them about you in person. If they do come.” 

“I’m sure they will,” Jaskier kisses his palm and then steps back. “So, yes for this?” 

The bodice covers a white shirt that puffs around his shoulders, and his arms are uncovered. Long earrings in the shape of water drops almost caress the jointure of neck and shoulders. His legs are covered with a deep green pants that look like they fit right with the bodice. For once, there are no moving embroidery, no glitter, nothing that shows the happy, sparkling personality of Jaskier. Despite the bodice, and perhaps due to it, he looks rather stern and serious. It does nothing to diminish Geralt’s attraction to him.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, kissing his lover gently. “As always.” 

Jaskier chuckles. “You cover me in compliments, trying to keep me distracted to withstand dinner with those awful, brutish creatures that call themselves faes?” 

“Would it be so bad if I did,” Geralt asks. “I’m worried that they’ll try something against you.” 

“I know,” Jaskier sighs. “I doubt they would, but they did send that stheno. They didn’t even try to deny that. I don’t know whether to rely on my instincts that tell me they should be killed without a second thought, or to the voice of reason that tells me a war may still be avoided.” 

Geralt grunts, tugging off his medallion from his neck. “I doubt that. Your mother was pretty clear in sending them away. Wear this.” 

“Your medallion? Why?” He accepts nonetheless, turning to let Geralt put it around his neck properly. “Isn’t it a symbol of your School? It is precious to it, you have it on even when we bathe or are in bed together.” 

“It is,” Geralt agrees and places a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s neck. “It also serves to protect. If they try to trick you with magic or with poison, you’ll know. That way, I can be sure that the only thing they can do is attack physically. And I know that I can protect you from that.” 

“I can’t—“ 

“Please,” Geralt insists. “For my peace of mind. I’ll take it back as soon as dinner is over, alright? I trust you with it. And I want to keep you safe, just as much as you want to keep me safe. If I were the one threatened, would you not do the same for me?” 

“Yes, but this is different, this is your witcher insignia and if you don’t have it—“ 

“I am still a witcher without it,” Geralt growls and then sighs deeply. “Please. I would be happier if I knew you wore it.” 

There is a torn look in Jaskier’s eyes, but he finally relents. “Thank you, my love.” 

Geralt only nods and turns back, placing his swords on his back the way he is used to. Jaskier pulls him in for a kiss, the medallion tucked in underneath his shirt, only the soft glimmer of the silver on his skin. It’s strange, that silver doesn’t burn him, but Geralt is definitely not complaining. Anything that can protect his lover is good.

When they meet Jaskier’s family back in the banquet hall, the whole fae court rises at their entrance. All except the guests, surrounded in the shroud of their darkness, as they sit behind the table already. It’s an act of defiance, and it isn’t Jaskier who snarls, but Geralt. They owe respect to Jaskier, owe him to bow and acknowledge his status. He is content to be ignored and sidelined; he has never liked being at the centre of the attention, but Jaskier? Jaskier is the Jewel of the Fae. He is the most beautiful being Geralt has ever seen, and he is also honourable and fair. Those accursed faes have no right to defy him like this, and Geralt wants to clean their heads off their shoulders. 

“Behave, my love,” Jaskier whispers softly. “We just have to get through this dinner, and then we won’t see them again. At least not alive.” 

Jaskier’s hand holds his own tightly, and when he says those words, there is a hint of a grin on his face. A delight at tearing apart Naasrin and his companions that makes Geralt smile too. His lover is so pretty, so delicate, and yet there is something so endearingly _vicious_ about him. It’s no wonder that he thoroughly charmed Geralt instantly. He likes his lovers with bite, and Jaskier has more bite than people give him credit for. 

“Prince Jaskier,” Naasrin finally rises from his seat and half-bows. There is less deference in his movements compared to before, and Geralt frowns. “A pleasure to be joined by your consort and you tonight.” 

“I’m sure it is,” Jaskier replies coolly. “My consort, the famed White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.” 

Naasrin extends his hand, or more exactly his claw. No one is attempting to mask their true appearance tonight, and Jaskier, despite his blood being half human, radiates more than all the others. In comparison, Lenethor’s delegation looks putrid. Geralt clasps his hand with the fae anyway. 

“Truly, a pleasure to meet such a legend amongst humans,” Naasrin purrs. 

There is something strangely sticky to the way Naasrin shakes his hand, but Geralt brushes it off. The fae looks like he died on a forest floor a few seasons ago; there is no surprise in the fae being sticky. 

They sit, and Naasrin starts talking again, to everyone’s displeasure. Armelle is seated next to Geralt again, and she bumps his shoulder with her own slightly. It’s the only comfort Geralt gets, besides Jaskier’s ever present hand on his thighs. 

Jaskier leans into his shoulder at some point, his voice slightly worried as he whispers. “Your medallion has been vibrating ever since we sat down. Is that normal?” 

Geralt frowns. He looks at Naasrin, feels the same unnatural sickness he had felt earlier. “It might only be that it catches on the less than pure intentions of Naasrin and his fellows. Keep your guard up nonetheless.” 

Jaskier nods and his grip on Geralt’s thigh tightens slightly. “You as well, my love.” 

The hushed conversation falls after that, Naasrin addressing Jaskier and turning his attention away from Geralt. Jaskier’s jaw is set harshly throughout dinner, but he doesn’t lean back in to ask more about the medallion. 

Dessert is served to them, and it’s only then that Geralt starts to notice something truly wrong. He doesn’t necessarily feel the cold, and yet his body shivers. At first, he thinks it is only because of an extended exposition to Lenethor’s faes, but soon his visions start to blur. His hands are burning up, and he lets out a groan as sharp pain rises within his body. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier turns to him sharply, his blue eyes wide with worry. “What’s wrong?” 

He shakes his head, tries to speak, but only a trickle of blood comes out of his mouth as everything in him falls to crushing, overwhelming pain. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier swears and grabs his face, looking into his eyes and then to the rest of his visage. “Geralt, come on!” 

“Hands,” he manages to stutter out, blood pouring more onto Jaskier’s fingers.

His lover grabs his hands, and when he turns them over, the palm of Geralt’s right hand is dark and covered in a large vine growing. 

“You poisoned him.” Jaskier doesn’t yell, but he might as well have. The hall quiets down, every conversation stilling as Geralt chokes on his blood and Armelle puts a dining cloth over his mouth. 

“I don’t see what you are talking about, my prince,” Naasrin smiles pleasantly. “Clearly, a witcher is not fit to live within a fae court—“ 

Naasrin doesn’t get to speak more. Jaskier has pulled Geralt’s silver sword from its sheath and ran it through the fae’s throat. 

The last thing Geralt sees before he collapses completely is Jaskier pulling the sword away from the body, fury all over his feature. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS 
> 
> Sorry D: I needed to add some personal tension in there, ya know? D: But as I've said before, this is a happy story! The boys will get their happy ending, and their relationship will never be threatened! 
> 
> For those who scrolled down for a warning: Geralt gets poisoned, and he coughs blood, as well as has some sort of plant growing in his palm. 
> 
> Next chapter will be up sometime next weekend! And someone is going to show up ~ 
> 
> Leave a comment if you enjoyed the chapter :D Or kudos!! Or come see me on tumblr @saltytransidiot :D Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier desperately wants to heal Geralt, Eskel shows up, and Armelle is still her charming self.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaah 
> 
> That's it. that's the note.
> 
> Kidding, this chapter is coming in super late (for me) because I was sick all day and couldn't write until like... 6pm, and it's now 10:30pm so most of it has been written in those four hours. It is unbeta-ed, as always, but I haven't even looked at it twice. This author needs his beauty sleep. I'll give it a once over in the morning, so if you read it before that uuuuh thank you and i'm sorry for the mess lmao
> 
> CW for this chapter: poisoning, blood, body horror (description of a vine growing out of Geralt's hand), execution

It isn’t fear pulsing through Jaskier’s veins as he catches Geralt’s in his arms, but pure fury. 

“Armelle,” he says roughly, his voice harsh and unlike him, but he doesn’t have the time to care. The man he loves is dying, he can feel his pulse slowing down. “A spell, fast.” 

Jaskier doesn’t do healing magic. He doesn’t hold his magic tightly enough for that. He is more apt at fighting and defending himself, at the control of minds. He doesn’t understand bodies as those soft, pliable things well enough for his magic to heal properly. He isn’t a healer, but it makes sense, he supposes. He is from the line of battle thirsty kings and queens who could have slaughtered hundreds without thinking, and healing is not exactly fitting to that spirit. 

Armelle nods, and she works fast, putting a spell over Geralt to slow the poison, to halt the death that has caught hold in Geralt’s body. 

“I can’t properly heal him just yet,” she warns with steel in her voice. She’s afraid, Jaskier realizes, of his fury if she doesn’t cure Geralt. “I need more time.” 

Jaskier growls, but he understands. Poisons are terrible, awful things that can wreck a life, so fast that they are lucky the ones Geralt was poisoned with was so slow to act. He wonders briefly if that is due to him being a witcher, or to the bond they have.

He nods shortly, and turns his eyes back to Naasrin’s rotten body. His companions have blades to their throats, and faes standing behind them. It’s strange to Jaskier that he doesn’t feel any kind of wrongness at seeing this. It feels almost natural to him. They have defied him, tried to kill Geralt. They have broken the Law of Hospitality. They deserve death and pain, and so much suffering, and Jaskier would be glad to inflict it on them.

“Bring him back to your rooms,” his mother orders, placing herself in Jaskier’s line of sight. “I’ll deal with our little pest problem, and I’ll make sure they give us the name of the poison and the antidote.” 

“I reserve the right to kill them,” Jaskier says, his teeth showing. He wants their blood on his hands, wants to feel the last breaths of those putrid mouths. “They are mine. They attacked my bonded soul and by virtue of our laws, I can claim their lives.” 

Anathea sighs, and Jaskier sees the sadness in her eyes, but he doesn’t care. He wants his revenge, and he will have it. He has never been bloodthirsty before, but now he understands why it is said that faes can go mad and ravage worlds when prompted. He would destroy the whole Continent without batting an eye if it meant saving Geralt. He would kill the gods, the men, everyone on this earth, if it held the slightest sliver of chance for Geralt to get out of this unharmed. In his heart, he knows what he will have to do. He’ll have to rip Lenethor’s throat out, to kill the bastard false king who pretends to have a claim over both Jaskier’s mother and his people. He has never considered himself vengeful before, but clearly, the situations he had been put in before had never needed that kind of reaction.

“And you will,” Jaskier’s father responds, his hand falling on Jaskier’s shoulder. Eryos Pankratz is not a fae, and yet, he has the respect of all of them, and the power to exert his duties as King Consort. “But first, you must heal your bonded soul. Healers will come to see him, and we will interrogate the prisoners, but killing them at once would not serve us. Take care of him, bring him back to your rooms, and when he is back on his feet, then you can execute the traitors who broke the Law of Hospitality.” 

Shaking with quiet, seething anger, Jaskier nods, and he spells the blood away from Geralt’s silver sword. He puts both swords over his shoulders, borrowing the sheaths and strapping system Geralt has, and then lifts his husband in his arms. He has blood spattered all over his arms and face, but the only thing that bothers him about it is that there is some of Geralt’s there. Geralt has been hurt, has bled, and Jaskier doesn’t know how to respond to that.

The walk back to their room is short, despite the fact that Geralt is heavy to carry and there are more stairs than Jaskier would like. He doesn’t pay attention to that right now though, only pulling at his powers to bring Geralt back into their safe haven.

When he puts him on the bed, Geralt stirs slightly, and some blood trickles down his face. Jaskier gently sweeps it away, and he feels his anger draining as he settles next to Geralt on the bed. They haven’t had one quiet night, they haven’t gotten to rest together like they should be. Lenethor has stolen yet another thing from Jaskier. First, his homeland and his people, and then the quietness and perfection that were supposed to be his bonding ceremony. But now, now the usurper is trying to take away Jaskier’s love. He is trying to kill Geralt, and for that.. for that he will pay. Jaskier will make him suffer. 

“Jask?” Armelle walks in the room with two healers, and when she sees him, she sighs softly. “Oh, honey.” 

Tears are running down his cheeks, without him even noticing. He has always been a crier, this is nothing new, but the absolute fear and rage that fills him at the idea of losing his lover is enough to make him lose control of himself. Three days ago, barely, Geralt had killed the lamia, and for an instant Jaskier had thought him dead, buried under the weight of the monster. It had been nothing compared to the pain that resonate in his body right now. If he were dying himself, he doesn’t think it would hurt more. 

His cousin drapes him in a blanket and then holds him against her. He’s glad for her presence. She doesn’t really have any blood connection to him, but they have a little difference in age, barely fifty years or so. She was his playmate when they grew up, and he had been there for her bonding ceremony, had been the one to give the ribbon to her husband. He had been there for the proper wedding too, proud and shining. He loves her like a sister, and he wonders if it would have been the same, had the lamia not killed his sister, his parents’ first born. 

“He’s going to be alright,” she whispers, and there is a certainty in his voice that Jaskier isn’t sure he feels. “We are going to find what they did, and we are going to kill him, and then we’ll watch as you kill those traitors. And he’ll be safe, I promise you, alright Jaskier?” 

He nods, mouth heavy with the tears and sobbing. “I’ll gouge their eyes out.” 

She chuckles sadly and holds him tighter. “Yes, you will. And then we’ll bury those outside the castle, and use them to ward the Evil Eye. Wards against Lenethor, against any enemies that could want harm to you, to your family, to our family.” 

“I won’t let that bastard hurt our people anymore,” he seethes. 

“We’ll kill him. War is coming, Jaskier. War among the faes, the first of its kind. The wild ones have answered Queen Anathea’s call, and they will fight besides us. We will be inferior in numbers, but we have the wild ones, and most importantly, we have you. Our Jewel. Our Prince. And we will follow your mother and you until death wrenches us from your side. Even then, our deaths will not be in vain. We will give you our powers. For every fae that Lenethor kills, there will be their strength added to the rest of our people.” 

He is a bit confused by that, and she smiles tenderly. “An old spell. Your mother has called upon all of us to swear an oath to you. You are the Jewel of the faes, Jaskier. One day, you will sit on your mother’s throne, and the White Wolf will stand beside you, and your powers will be those of the first kings. You will make us the proud and beautiful people we once were. We have all sworn that oath, and now, we all know that our fate is tied to yours. And there is joy, and pride, and cries of war. Listen to our people, Jaskier. Listen to their songs for you and for the White Wolf. They are calling for you.” 

She taps over his heart gently with the palm of her hand and a slow, tender smile is spread over her lips. “Listen to them.” 

So Jaskier closes his eyes, relaxes his shoulders, and listens. 

The echo is strange. It is not a sound, not anything he has ever felt before, and yet it feels familiar. Almost like the bond he has with Geralt, a twisted, less personal form of it. He can feel the thrum of his people, the desire for war, their beating hearts and clapping hands as they jeer and taunt the prisoners in the main hall. Faes can be cruel, and he smiles with the savagery he feels from their hearts. He is theirs, and they are his. He might be the Jewel of the faes, but they are what gives him value. Each and every one of them is beautiful, scarred, shattered. They are the subject of the Queen Anathea and her King Consort Eryos, and they are proud. 

“You hear them now, don’t you?” She caresses his hair and keeps him in his arms. “They call for you. They’ll wait for you to lead them into battle, into death and life.” 

“My mother,” he starts, stops, thinks for a few seconds. “My mother is the Queen. I have no intention of replacing her.” 

“We know that,” Armelle chuckles and kisses his forehead. “But your mother will be by your side. And you will rule alongside her until she retires. She has told me so.”

Jaskier sighs. He wants to be proud, wants to be what they are all expecting him to be, but he isn’t sure he can. He only learnt the previous night that he is a prince, after all. And he is half human. His magic shouldn’t be as strong as it is, he shouldn’t be the Jewel of the faes and—

In his forced sleep, Geralt’s hand reaches out to him, gripping at the edges of the blanket, a whimper leaving his throat. Jaskier turns his head back to him and gets closer slowly, Armelle letting him. 

“Shhh, it’s alright, my love,” he whispers gently to the white haired witcher. “We’ll both be fine, I promise. Together soon. I swear…” 

It almost sends him crying again, but he is trying his best to be strong for his lover, strong where Geralt can’t. So he presses a tender kiss to Geralt’s forehead and stands back up. He looks at the two healers, who are weaving spells after spells, trying to understand what poison it is that Naasrin slipped into Geralt’s bloodstream without them noticing. He will trust them to do this. He has to. 

He changes into a more comfortable outfit, one that isn’t splattered with blood, and he washes his face and hands, making sure to scrub away every inch of his body that has been touched by Naasrin’s blood. Geralt’s medallion finally quietens down when all the blood is gone, and Jaskier wonders if what it felt was the poison in Geralt’s blood, or simply the fae. Naasrin had been _wrong_ , just like his companions are. He doesn’t know exactly what it is about the faes under Lenethor’s influence that make them so wrong. Perhaps the way magic had curled away from them, the way they hadn’t wielded the easy, natural grace the every fae is born with. Geralt had wanted to discuss something, before the banquet, but he had been too upset to listen. 

“Jaskier?” Armelle knocks at the door of the bathroom and pushes it open gently.

He is wearing a large shirt, black as charred wood, and over it, he left the wolf’s medallion. He feels safer with it for now. Like he has a bit of Geralt with him, like he is going to be still protected. Like, perhaps, his bonded soul won’t die at the hands of cruel fate. His pants are loose too, larger than what he usually wears. He doesn’t feel like himself, but at the moment, he doesn’t want to. He pulls rarely used shoes over his feet, and his connection to the earth shivers, falls down significantly. Instead of the constant pull and thrum he usually feels, it is now a dull hum at the back of his mind. He tightens his sword at his belt, and then looks up. 

“We should go to the library, I think I remember seeing a few books on poison there,” Armelle says, not commenting on her friend’s outfit. “We could check out if we can find anything on Lenethor, or at least on the way his people are.” 

Jaskier nods, pulls on the medallion slightly. He’s afraid, more than he is willing to say, but he’ll be strong. For Geralt, he can be stronger than he has ever been. 

He spends his night in the library, searching through tomes and taking notes of whatever he finds that could be helpful. It isn’t quite the blood that concerns him; nearly all fae poisons are this way, insidious and perverse, pushing inside the person they are killing like growing plants. It’s the vine that was blooming in his lover’s hand. The way it had not been green, not the healthy, alive color of the plants he knows. It had been like dead wood, ashen and suffering, a curse on Geralt. 

“A curse,” he mutters when the night has been forgotten and the sun is high in the sky. “A curse!” 

Armelle startles slightly at his shout and gives him a strange look. “A curse?” 

“Yes,” he almost yells again, a bit exalted by his own discovery. “A curse!”

“Alright, now you’ve lost me,” Armelle frowns and looks over at what he is reading. “There isn’t any mention of a curse here?” 

“No, I just, I was thinking of that plant that was growing in Geralt’s palm. It’s not any natural poison! We have been searching for hours and found nothing, and I’m pretty sure we’ve got a very extensive set of books on poison… And the healers would have already taken care of it if it were a normal situation. Maybe they cursed the poison, before, somehow?” 

Armelle looks thunderstruck at the idea. “Your witcher should be dead then.” 

Jaskier bristles, his teeth showing as he does so, and she steps back slightly. “He’s stronger than anyone gives him credit for. He is a witcher, and my bonded soul.” 

“I did not mean insult,” Armelle says gently, and puts her hand on his shoulder. “I like Geralt as well, and I know he is strong. I’m just astounded by how strong. You two have truly found each other. He’ll get out of this, and so will you, and by the end, you will be stronger for it.” 

“I hope so,” Jaskier deflates a bit, but he tries smiling anyway. “Let’s find information on how curses can affect poison, alright?” 

She nods, and he is pulling a book from a bookshelf at the back when the door opens, a flurry of movements indicating someone rushing in. 

“Your Highness,” a voice calls out, and Jaskier frowns a bit. He had thought it clear that he was not to be bothered unless it was about Geralt. Could it be that Geralt…? 

“Your Highness,” the fae bows low when they see Jaskier walking back towards them. “There is a man at the gates, claiming to be a witcher? He claims to be the brother of your bonded soul, and to have been called by him for an urgent matter. He refused to explain himself further unless he saw the White Wolf, despite our attempts.” 

Another witcher… It must be one of the ones Geralt had contacted the previous day. His lover hasn’t talked much of his brothers, but he had mentioned that there were two of them left, Eskel and Lambert. He wonders which one it will be. He twirls the wolf medallion around his neck and wonders quietly if they’ll see through his glamor. Geralt hadn’t, not until Jaskier had tried manipulating him at least. Even then… Geralt had told him that it had taken a bit of time for the whole glamour to fall down. 

“I’ll meet him at the gates then.” 

The fae, a girl named Ciaran, looks a bit startled, looking him up and down, but she doesn’t say anything, simply bows and mutters a “Yes, my prince” before leaving. 

Perhaps she does have a point. Jaskier isn’t known for wearing those kind of outfits. He is too loose, too lost in the pain that threaten to overwhelm him, and he tries to find even a crack to hold onto, but he can’t. Even if he looks like shit, he can’t manage to care. He can’t make himself think about going back to his room, not when Geralt is there, looking defeated and dying of some accursed poison. He almost regrets having killed Naasrin the previous night. He should have made the bastard suffer. 

“Jask?” Armelle touches his shoulder softly, and he realizes he has been standing frozen in place for a few minutes now. “Do you need me to go there with you?” 

“No,” Jaskier huffs a bit, his shoulders hunching a bit. He feels so much younger than he really is suddenly. He is a prince of the fae, he reminds himself. The Jewel of the Kingdom. He can do this. 

“You’ll be fine,” she affirms, and claps his shoulder. “It’s only another witcher.” 

“Geralt’s brother,” he chokes on the word. “I’ll have to tell him about Geralt.” 

“I’m sure he will understand,” she caresses his hair and moves slightly upward to kiss his cheek. “You are Geralt’s bonded soul. He will help us get his brother back into shape, at the very least.” 

Jaskier nods again. “Alright, yes.” 

He walks to the gates with uncertainty in his chest. The wolf medallion is a warm weight around his neck, and he twirls it a few times in his hand. 

The man waiting at the gates is tall, as tall as he is, and his face is marked by three long scars. He has the golden eyes of witchers, and two swords hang heavy on his back. In his hand, he holds the bridle of a horse, black as night. Jaskier can’t feel the thrum of energy around him much, can’t see much beyond _witcher_. 

It’s strange to have the world be muted this way, and he considers shoving away the shoes on his feet, reconnecting with the dirt and earth underneath him. He doesn’t though. He can’t do that right now, in front of Geralt’s brother, when they haven’t even met yet. Does he know Jaskier is a fae? Geralt hadn’t mentioned telling them. 

He hadn’t mentioned their bond either. But that, he had explained. Jaskier isn’t angry about that, he just wonders how to bring it up to a witcher he has never met. 

“I’m here to see Geralt of Rivia,” the witcher announces, and Jaskier sighs. “He sent word that he was here.” 

“He is, but-“ 

The sharp, steel edge of a blade is pressed to his throat as the witcher growls angrily, taking Geralt’s medallion in his hand.

“How did you get this?” He snarls the question, pressing the blade against Jaskier’s throat slightly more. “Where is Geralt?” 

Jaskier bats his eyes quickly, a bit confused about the turn of events. He could use his magic, could simply use his strength and push the witcher away, keep him from reaching for his weapons again. He doesn’t though. He almost enjoys the slight tug on his skin.

He hears the rumble of guards rushing to them, but he puts a hand up to stop them. “I did not harm your brother, witcher.” 

Jaskier speaks calmly, his eyes firmly planted in those of his to-be brother-in-law. The golden shade of those almost hurts him more than the blade at his neck. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see that shade of gold in the eyes of the one he loves, and the idea of it fills him with pain. He forces himself to breathe. 

“Then why do you wear his medallion? And don’t lie!” 

“I wouldn’t dare to,” Jaskier rolls his eyes slightly. “I happen to wear the medallion of my fiancé, who left it in my care. Said fiancé happens to be your brother, Geralt of Rivia. I assume he would not like to see one of his fellow witcher trying to kill his bonded soul. I would also guard you against killing me at the moment. You stand in the courtyard of a Fae Palace, and killing the prince would be badly seen. Without mentioning the fact that your brother would be extremely upset when he comes back to himself.” 

The man frowns. “Bonded soul?” 

“Yes,” Jaskier answers. “Could you remove that sword now? I’m not particularly fond of being threatened, and I would rather not have to harm you to get your blade away from my neck.” 

The witcher frowns again, but he steps away, letting go of the medallion, but his sword is still up, aiming at Jaskier’s chest. 

“Explain yourself,” he demands. 

Jaskier sighs, passes a hand over his face. “Listen. I don’t really have the time currently. Your brother is dying because someone poisoned him with a cursed poison we can’t figure out, and I don’t have the time to explain everything to you right now!” 

His voice rises as he keeps talking, and he ends up almost yelling, but he forces himself to calm down. He can’t let his emotions run high like this. He needs to calm down, to breathe and remind himself that there is no way in the world he will let Geralt die. Not ever, and certainly not now. 

“Who poisoned him?” The man, who still hasn’t introduced himself, questions and moves his sword away, finally. “You obviously care about him.” 

“Of course I do,” Jaskier snaps, and he can feel himself shifting slightly. He is too tired and frightened to even think about controlling himself. “He has my heart, and I have his. I told you, we are bonded souls.” 

“I have no idea what that means. I need to see him.” 

Jaskier stops him from moving further inside with a hand on his torso, and the Witcher’s eyes go wide with surprise at the strength behind his movement. “You will not go anywhere without telling me who you are and why you are here.” 

The man almost growls, something like annoyance and anger flashing in his eyes. “Eskel of the School of the Wolf. I have known Geralt since before the Trials. I’m his brother, and he sent for us.”

“What did he say was the reason?” 

“A war amongst faes brewing. He mentioned needing help, and he is not one to say this lightly, so I hurried here.” 

Jaskier moves back and lets his hand fall away from Eskel’s chest. “Follow me,” he says a bit emptily. 

He doesn’t have the heart to keep questioning Eskel. His senses are numbed slightly, but he doesn’t feel any deception coming from him anyway. It’s a strange thing; usually, all humans have deceptions and lies around them, something that darken them slightly. Not the witchers. 

Geralt had felt… beautiful. When Jaskier had set eyes on him, in the room his father had chosen to use for the meeting with the witcher, he had known that Geralt was someone special. He had known that he was linked to him by one of the threads of fates. 

After all, Geralt had been so focused on the monster hunting, so desperate to drink in all the affection that Jaskier was giving. It had torn slightly at Jaskier’s heart, to see this beautiful man so surprised at Jaskier’s casual touches. At first, Jaskier had just meant to flirt with the witcher. But after the lamia, after seeing Geralt fighting with all his might to protect him, Jaskier had known it was meant to be more. He is glad he had listened to that instinct. 

He leads Eskel to his rooms and braces himself for what he will see. He hasn’t asked about Geralt, hasn’t had news since he left him to research in the library. If he had, he would have crumbled under the fear. He had needed to keep his focus on the books and the possible antidote. 

“A fae, servant of the false king who usurped my mother’s throne, has tried to kill him,” he warns Eskel. “The specific fae is dead now, but we are gathering information on how to best heal Geralt still.” 

Eskel nods, quiet and severe, and Jaskier pushes the door open. 

Geralt is still lying on the bed, but the vine in his hand has grown, sprouting red flowers that shine with the uneasy glow of blood in the sun. It makes Jaskier sick to look at the way his lover writhes on the bed and lets out moans of pain. 

“Geralt,” Eskel breathes and runs into the room, reaching for his brother’s hand. “Geralt, come on, talk to me old man!” 

“He has been put in a magical sleep,” Jaskier says, trying to keep the tears back in his eyes from falling. “It was that or death. I don’t know how much he still has left, but… We are going to find a solution.” 

_We don’t have a choice_ , he thinks to himself as he comes to sit next to Geralt. _If he dies, I’ll choose death over anything else._

“What have you tried?” Eskel looks at him with a frown. “Witchers have different constitution from humans.” 

“Good thing we aren’t humans either.” Jaskier bites his lips, forces himself to stop being so aggressive. “Our healers can tell you what they have been trying.” 

Eskel nods and looks expectantly at the healers, who rush to tell him everything they’ve been doing. 

Jaskier doesn’t really listen. He caresses Geralt’s hair, trying to ignore how sweaty and hot his lover’s skin is. If he doesn’t think about it, if he pretends that Geralt is just sleeping, perhaps everything will be fine. Perhaps Geralt will open his eyes and stare up at him. All the love, all the adoration he has for Geralt, he seeps it into every single touch.

“I’ll get you back, my love,” he whispers, lower than anyone else can hear. “I’ll get you back, I promise. And I’ll let everyone know the rage of Prince Jaskier. I’ll let everyone know that no one is to harm you, or that if they do, I’ll personally see to their death.” 

He feels a pair of golden eyes, not the one he wishes, settle on him, and he looks up. Eskel is looking at him intently, analyzing his movements. It’s clear he has heard what Jaskier said, clear that he can understand the devotion in every single word, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he nods.

“Thank you,” he says. “For caring for him. He is too stubborn for his own good sometimes. I understand that I have probably not made the most stellar of first impressions but… I’m glad he has someone to love, and to be loved by. I just wish he had warned us about it.” 

Jaskier laughs a bit wetly, tears falling down his cheeks once again. How many times is he going to cry? How many times is he going to fear the loss of his lover? 

“I understand your reaction,” he manages to choke out. “If my sister was in that position as well and someone I didn’t know greeted me, wearing her insignia? I would probably have my sword against their throat as well. And to answer the question you don’t dare to ask… Geralt wanted to see you in person, before telling you about me. Our relationship hasn’t been exactly the most conventional one. But well. We love each other.”

“Not conventional?” Eskel frowns and he is about to ask more, but Armelle bursts in. 

“I’ve got it!” She shouts, and Eskel’s hand on his sword tightens. “Oh, hi, didn’t know we had a guest. Lovely meeting you, you must be Geralt’s brother. I’m Lady Armelle.”

She extends her hand, shifting the heavy volume underneath her left arm and Eskel shakes it, slightly astonished at Armelle’s casual behaviour and the way she expresses herself. Jaskier chuckles softly, and then looks at the book. 

“Armelle, you want to tell us what it is about the book that’s going to help us?” 

“Ah, yes,” she turns away from Eskel and opens the book to a page. “The Dryad’s curse! Combined with a liquid form of hellebore injected directly into his blood, and you’ve got exactly what your lover has.” 

Jaskier reads over the page with a frown. The Dryad’s curse, if he is to believe what the book says, will create vines that grow within the person’s body, and if there is any wound, those vines will spill out and draw on the person’s blood to grow more and more vivacious. 

He looks down at the vine in Geralt’s hand and swears, loudly and extensively, and Armelle looks a bit startled by that when he gives her back the book. 

“There is no way written to cure it,” Jaskier says, and Armelle grins, producing a second book from thin air. “I hate your spacial spells so much.” 

“No you don’t,” she grins again, and in the middle of them, Eskel looks thoroughly confused. “Pretty boy, that witcher, isn’t he?” 

“You’re married and bonded,” he reminds her, a bit calmer now that he can sense that she isn’t panicked anymore. “Don’t make me tell your husband.” 

She laughs and settles next to Eskel, who moves away slightly. “No need for that, you know I would never do anything to endanger my lover’s love. I’m just saying, there are a lot of pretty faes who would kill to have a piece of that much handsome ruggedness. Might even find him a bonded soul too!” 

“I’ll stick to being alone,” Eskel growls a bit, reminding Jaskier of Geralt as he does so. 

“You really are Geralt’s brother,” he mutters, flipping through the pages. “Where is it…” 

He finally finds the page, and reads it, and relief flows through him. It’s fairly easy, although he doesn’t know how well the ritual will work on a Witcher’s body. And once the curse is done with, they can remove the hellebore from his system. And then… Then Geralt will be back. Jaskier won’t have to worry anymore, because Geralt will be back and he will be alive, and— 

“We should get started as soon as possible, my prince,” one of the healers say, bowing low. “May we?” 

They are looking at the book, and Jaskier nods. “Not here. I won’t… I won’t have him suffer so much in this room.” 

“Suffer?” Eskel sounds worried. “Wait what—“ 

“Yes, your highness. Where would you rather we settle?” 

Jaskier removes his shoes and lifts Geralt in his arms, tender and slow. “The pond’s meadow. We will be at peace there. Come, Eskel. I’ll explain to you what needs to be done.” 

The witcher frowns but follows, watching the crumpled form of his brother with worry in his eyes. “What are you going to do with him?” 

“Save him,” Jaskier sighs. “A Dryad’s curse creates vines inside of him, and since he was poisoned through a prickle on his palm, that is where the poison took hold, and that is where the curse also started. We need to remove the entry point, considering the way it has been combined.” 

“You’re going to cut his hand?” Eskel is horrified as he asks. 

“No! Who do you think we are, savages?” Jaskier huffs and keeps walking, using his magic to open the doors they pass through, and faes linger in the hallways, looking at their prince and his strange entourage. “We are going to remove the vines from his body.” 

It takes Eskel a few, quiet seconds, and then he looks even more horrified than before. “You’re going to tear them out, aren’t you?” 

“It’s either that, or we burn the vines in his body. A fae could withstand it, maybe. If the person doing it was skillful enough. A human? Never. So yes, we are going to rip those vines out of Geralt’s body, through their entry point.” 

“It’s going to break him!” 

“He is strong,” Jaskier answers, trying not to let his voice wavers. “He can live through it.” 

“You’re as worried as I am,” Eskel accuses. “At least, let me give him a potion. Please. It will give him the strength needed for this operation.” 

Jaskier hesitates. They are reaching the meadow, the water of the pond shining idyllically. The sun is warm on Jaskier’s face, and the grass lush underneath his feet, but Jaskier barely pays attention to it. 

“Talk with the healer about the potion. I can’t tell you whether or not the magic would alter ours, I am no skilled healer.” 

Eskel nods and turns to the healers, who have stopped at the edge of the meadow, and starts asking them questions. Jaskier doesn’t listen to those. He kneels, gently placing Geralt on the ground, and pulls some of the water on his face, murmuring a few blessings underneath his breath. He is aware he shouldn’t be using his magic like that, not when they are going to be doing even more experimental magic on Geralt, but those are easy blessings for him to remove.

He takes off his shirt and lets the sun warms his skin. The medallion is cold against his chest, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t mind the shivers that cover him as he keeps cooling down mechanically his witcher. His lover looks deadly pale, all the life sucked out of him by this damned curse. 

“Here,” Eskel crouches and looks at him, extending to him a small glass vial. “It’ll help him through the pain.” 

Jaskier nods. “You don’t have to stay here while we heal him.” 

He pulls Geralt’s head on his lap and gently pushes his lips open. The potion feels wrong in Jaskier’s hand, but he trusts Eskel to not harm Geralt. When he had spoken of him, Geralt’s voice had been fond, and that had been enough to win Jaskier over. He trusts his bonded soul over anything else in the world. 

“You are staying, aren’t you?” Eskel crosses his arms and sits next to him. “I’m not leaving my brother.” 

“Stubborn witchers,” Jaskier mutters, but he is slightly warmed by the idea that there is someone else in this world who cares just as much as he does for Geralt’s well being. 

Geralt struggles to drink the potion, but a rush of Jaskier’s magic, an order of the Fae Prince on his mind, and it’s affecting his body. Jaskier doesn’t let the guilt of having broken into his lover’s mind wash over him. He will apologize to Geralt, beg his forgiveness, do anything the witcher will ask of him, but later. This takes priority, this will help him. 

He feels the change happening in Geralt, feels something uncomfortable settle over him, and he almost gags. 

“Is there something wrong, my prince?” One of the healer enquires as they settle around Geralt. 

Jaskier shakes his head. He can’t let them know how deep his bond with Geralt runs. “Nothing. Let’s start and be done with this as fast as possible.” 

The healers bow their heads, and slowly he feels them start to weave their magic over Geralt. It’s a slow process, something that requires them to be extremely careful. Breaking a curse requires spells and spoken magic, none of which is the most natural to a fae. They can all heal themselves and other pretty easily when it comes to minor scratches, to wounds made by blades, but magical wounds are another matter. Jaskier doesn’t know how to remove a curse, and he decides that he will learn, as soon as he can. He won’t let this kind of situation happen ever again. 

Geralt convulses and screams when the magic starts pulling at the vine growing out of him. He bleeds too, black and thick blood that doesn’t look human, but it really is his voice, so broken and full of pain, that makes Jaskier cry uncontrollably. It fills the air, and Jaskier has to close his eyes to stop seeing the vine as it slithers out of his lover’s body. 

Next to him, Eskel is gritting his teeth so loudly that Jaskier wonders if the witcher isn’t going to break them. His hands are curled in tight fists as well, and Jaskier knows that it is torture for him as well. They both hate seeing someone they love in so much pain. 

It takes the healer the better part of an hour to remove the whole vine. They are careful, after all, doing their best not to pull too much at once. It’s a precarious balance, and it makes Jaskier bite the inside of his lips hard enough that he can feel blood slowly dripping down in his mouth. He hates this. He hates that he can’t simply fix all of this with a wish. 

The shouting stop, and Geralt’s breathing is ragged, but it’s louder than before, more present, and relief floods Jaskier. He opens his eyes and looks down at Geralt first, noticing that there is no more vine in his hand, only a large hole the size of a thumb, but that slowly is being reformed and closed down by the healers’ spells. 

The healers as well seem much more relaxed, their shoulders less tense. Removing a poison and closing a wound, they know how to do easily, and they work fast. It’s a matter of minutes before they look at Jaskier again. 

“It is done, your Highness,” one of them says as they both stand up and bows. “We will leave you to tend to him. He will need plenty of rest, and nourishment. We will have food and wine sent to your rooms.” 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, his voice honest and raw from the joy that nearly overwhelms him. 

His fingers travel to Geralt’s neck, and his lover’s pulse is back to normal. 

“Is he going to be alright?” Eskel comes closer and looks at Geralt’s hand, where only a small, dark point remains as evidence of what happened. “This is amazing…” 

“Fae magic is quite powerful,” Jaskier agrees and moves gently. “I… I don’t think I have the strength to carry him at the moment.” 

The admission is a shameful one, but Jaskier isn’t too proud to ask for help. Especially when it concerns Geralt. His exhaustion and his overzealous use of magic is starting to wear on him, and he wants to be back in bed with Geralt, holding the man in his arms tightly.

“I’ll bring him back to your room then. Can you walk?” Eskel is already pulling the still-sleeping witcher in his arms, an ease to the movement that makes Jaskier want to question it. 

“I can manage until my room,” he asserts and, pulling his shirt back on, forces himself to stand. 

His whole body sings in pain. He hadn’t noticed how uncomfortable the position he had been in was, and now he is paying the price for it. Still, he doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t complain. He’ll pay whatever it is that Destiny and Fate demand of him, if it means that Geralt is alive and well. 

Eskel puts Geralt on the bed carefully, and then takes a good look at Jaskier. 

“Without meaning offence,” he starts and then bites his lips, hesitating. “You um. You don’t look quite so good right now. You should probably rest with him.” 

Jaskier laughs. It’s not often that people dare say this to him, and he doesn’t know how to react to it. He probably does look like shit, but none of his people have even hinted at it, not even Armelle, and doesn’t that speak volume about the gravity of the situation? So he laughs, until his knees give out and he falls on the bed, next to Geralt. 

“Yeah,” he struggles to keep himself calm. “I think I will. Ask someone to bring you to the Great Hall, the Queen will probably receive you there.” 

“Your mother then?” 

“Yes,” there is pride in his voice. “Queen Anathea, rightful queen of the faes. I am Jaskier. I realize I’ve never introduced myself properly.” 

Eskel’s smile is warm when he answers. “I think there were some extenuating circumstances that make that error quite forgivable. I will leave you alone and go meet your mother. I’ll bring her the news of Geralt’s healing as well.” 

“Thank you,” Jaskier mutters, sleep already pulling at his mind as he wraps his arms around Geralt slowly. 

He hears the door closing, and then nothing anymore, as sleep finally blesses him. 

Movement wakes him up, and he almost panics until he realizes that the hand in his hair is Geralt’s and the slow rise and fall of his lover’s chest clearly indicates a state of wakefulness. 

“Ah,” Geralt sighs a bit, voice rough. “I’ve woken you up.” 

“I don’t mind,” Jaskier answers as he blinks awake, and he tilts his head up to look at Geralt. “How are you feeling?” 

“Tired, but surprisingly well for what happened. How long was I out?” 

Jaskier tilts his head to the window and looks as the moon slowly rises in the sky. “A day.” 

Geralt grunts and tries to sit up, but Jaskier stops him. It makes him chuckle, and rather than protest, he simply pulls the fae prince on top of himself, and drags him into a long, tender kiss. Jaskier kisses back with all the desperation of the previous day building up. It’s a bit frantic, and he cries a bit, but he keeps kissing and feeling Geralt against him, making sure that this is real, and not just another dream. 

“I love you,” he whispers against Geralt’s lips. “I thought you were going to die. I thought I would never get to tell you I love you again, that… that we wouldn’t get the life of happiness that we are owed… I thought you would die…” 

“I know,” Geralt answers and kisses him again and again, until they are both breathless. “We will get that life, I promise.” 

Jaskier wants to sob more, but all the tears have fled his body, so he simply kisses Geralt again and again. They are content like this, just mapping each other’s body with soft caress, and trading kisses and gentle words. Jaskier informs Geralt that Eskel is there, and the witcher laughs as he listens to Jaskier. It feels good to have Geralt back laughing. 

The next few days are both a struggle and a blessing. Geralt and Jaskier get to spend time lounging in bed, both resting from the events, and Eskel, Armelle, even Jaskier’s parents, come by to talk with them. Eskel, now that Geralt is no longer in life threatening danger, is actually quite fun. It’s interesting for Jaskier to watch the two brothers interacting. It’s a side of Geralt he hadn’t seen before, and he quickly realizes that he also love the way Geralt’s smile turns into a half smirk when he thinks of something witty to say back to his brother. 

On the morning of the fifth day after, Jaskier gets out of bed early and Geralt groans in protest. 

“What are you doing?” He sits up slowly, and his medallion is back around his neck, a reassuring sight for Jaskier. 

“I’m going to kill the filth that poisoned you,” Jaskier answers, washing his face in a basin, before walking over to his wardrobe. “And I’m going to send a message to Lenethor at the same time.” 

Geralt is quiet for a few seconds. “War will be upon us very soon then.” 

“Yes,” Jaskier sighs as he fastens his belt to hold down the long, dark blue pants he keeps for matters such as those. Although, no situation has ever been this convoluted… “

“What can I do?” 

Jaskier tilts his head. “Do you want to kill them yourself? I claimed their lives, but they are yours first, since they attacked you.” 

Again, silence fills the room as Jaskier finishes dressing. His outfit is perfectly measured, halfway between armour and clothing, a beautiful shade of blue that makes him look like he stepped off the night sky. He knows what he looks like, especially as he settles the crown of flowers over his hair. He places a few long, thin, silver necklaces that hang over his chest and catch the light. 

As always whenever he dresses, Jaskier catches the light of interest in Geralt’s eyes, and he can’t help but grin. It feels nice, to know that, no matter what, he’ll always have his beloved’s attention. 

“No. You should be the one to do it.” Geralt pulls on some clothes, simple and reliable, and accepts when Jaskier makes him pull over his shirt a black doublet.

The prisoners left alive are all lined up, kneeling in the courtyard. They are all in a pitiful shape, but Jaskier doesn’t care.

“You have conspired against Queen Anathea and broken the Law of Hospitality,” he announces loudly, loud enough for the gathering of faes, and the two witcher in the crowd, to hear every of his words. “You have attempted to kill the bonded soul of the rightful Prince of Faes. When offered your life in exchange for the antidote, you chose death. Today, this sentence will be passed upon you.” 

Jaskier looks at his mother, who nods back proudly, and he knows. He slips his sword out of the sheath, and plunges it right into the first one throat. The second one receives a blade to the heart. It goes down the line this way, until he reaches the fifth fae. Their eyes are wide, but they still manage to look determinate enough. For them, Jaskier has other plans. 

He whistles, and the horses that Lenethor’s faes arrived on strutter in the courtyard. It creates confusion for an instant, but then Jaskier gestures from the corpse to the back of the horse, and they start tying the bodies to the horses’ saddle. 

“Please,” the fae begs, “please, don’t kill me.”

They would almost sound young, but Jaskier knows a liar when he hears one. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you.” 

The answer seems to be confusing the kneeling fae, and Jaskier smiles, an empty, cruel smile. He pulls a dagger from his waist, and, ever so slowly, pushes it in between the ribcage of the fae. As long as the dagger stays inside, it will bring only unbearable pain. But Jaskier also coated it in a thin layer of poison. It will be hell for the treacherous fae. Jaskier only grins wider. 

“Bring the news to your king,” he spats the words out. “The Jewel of the Faes will have Lenethor’s head on a platter by the end of this conflict.” 

He turns away as the fae, dagger still stuck in their chest, staggers to their horse, and departs, the corpse-carrying horses following. 

He bows to his parents, and Anathea smiles proudly. “Today, you’ve truly acted like a royal heir,” she says with even more pride in her voice. She kisses his forehead, and he grins. 

He finds Geralt again and let’s the witcher wraps him in his arms. 

“This will start the war officially,” he murmurs into Jaskier’s hair. 

“I know,” the prince answers, “It’s a war I’m well intent on winning.” 

Geralt chuckles and kisses him tenderly. “I’ll be there to see you crowned King then.” 

“And you my Consort,” Jaskier smiles. 

They stay standing like this amidst the crowd. War will be at their doorstep, but they aren’t afraid. They have each other, and they won’t let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter, even if it is a bit messy :'') I'll do better next week, I swear, and we'll also be back on our regularly scheduled soft boys content !! 
> 
> Don't hesitate to leave a comment! They make my days (seriously), and I cherish them!! You can also come chat with me on tumblr (@saltytransidiot) and yell at me for putting Geralt through all that lmao
> 
> ok i am now. going to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys enjoy themselves and reconnect properly, and more witchers nonsense !!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I'm bringing this chapter late(ish) on a saturday night bc I've been working on it all day and it has been a struggle!! I'm not overly proud of it, there are a few things that I'm not sure make sense but... Well I don't know how to make them better at this point sigh. 
> 
> I still do hope you enjoy it! I've had to change the rating to E bc the boys were being horny lmao. Also! we finally have Lambert and Aiden!! And Jaskier remains a true badass and I love him so much 
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt has learnt to enjoy lounging in bed with Jaskier. Since they sent back the corpses of Lenethor’s faes, the prince has been restless. He understands that restlessness, he truly does, but he feels like Jaskier is slipping away from him, and he hates that. 

It’s the third morning since the execution, and Jaskier is already dressing up, despite the fact that it is barely dawn. He has forgone his beautiful outfits as well. Now, he dresses in black breeches and dark shirts that show none of his usual brightness. Geralt doesn’t like the change. He can tell it isn’t Jaskier, that it doesn’t suit him well and that it isn’t what he wants. Call it intuition, call it love, or simply their bond, but Geralt is learning everything there is to know about Jaskier. And this isn’t good. 

“Jaskier,” he rasps out. He is barely awake, his lover having been restless most of the night. “My heart, come back to bed.” 

The fae prince smiles tenderly and comes to kiss him lightly. “I shouldn’t. I have a meeting with my mother and Armelle and some members of the former army and-“ 

Geralt stops him by dragging him down on the bed and trapping him underneath himself. He kisses him harshly, his mouth demanding, and he pushes Jaskier’s shirt up as he continues kissing his fiancé. The very word sends thrills of joy through him. Soon, he will marry this wonderful man. Soon, he’ll be able to tell the world that they belong to one another. 

“You need a distraction,” Geralt growls when he finally leaves Jaskier’s lips. “Let me distract you.” 

They haven’t been very intimate since the poisoning. Of course, they have kissed, slept in the same bed, and they have fucked a handful of times, but it had always been short. Jaskier had been tense and afraid, and he had been so careful too. Worried to reopen the wound in Geralt’s hand. Guilt had been devouring him as well, guilt at having had to control Geralt when he had been put in a magical sleep. 

Geralt had tried explaining to him that he didn’t mind. After all, he trusts Jaskier with his whole life, with his heart and so much more beyond that. He trusts him when he says he looked as little as he could. And he trusts him when he says that he would never have done it under non-extreme circumstances. 

“There is nothing to forgive,” Geralt had said when Jaskier had been apologizing over and over. “I know that you did what you needed to do, and you saved my life. Please, my love, please stop blaming yourself for something that was right to do.” 

“I could have hurt you,” Jaskier had whispered, voice full of fear and suffering. “I could have hurt you and you wouldn’t have known. No one would have known and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

He had started crying afterwards, and Geralt wonders how much has the poisoning affected him. Geralt may have suffered, but at least he was unconscious. Jaskier was the one who saw him through it all. He was the one who took care of him and healed him. Eskel had told Geralt what had happened in the meadow. He can’t ever imagine having to hurt Jaskier this way to make sure he will stay alive. 

“My love, please,” Geralt begs again, kissing his lips tenderly. “Let me distract you. Let me remind you of what we are fighting for.” 

Jaskier’s blue eyes are wide, and he nods softly. “Please. I just… I can’t forget what you looked like in pain and… I can’t forget how much I hurt you. I’m so afraid, so afraid that this war will takes us apart from one another…” 

Geralt kisses him and removes the few clothings he wears. He stands naked atop his lover, who immediately reaches to touch him, caressing his torso. 

“I’ll show you, again and again, what I look like when I’m alive,” he swears in a low voice, and then devotes himself to undoing Jaskier’s clothes. 

His lover cries out in pleasure when Geralt takes him inside of him, riding him and making noises of pleasure. Neither of them is quiet now; they both need the reassurance that they are alive, they are together, and nothing will hurt them. They are bonded, fate and life and soul, all of those are shared between them. 

Even their powers, Geralt remembers as pleasure courses through his body, and he wonders if that means he can control the nature around them. He doesn’t have to wonder much longer. He only has to focus on the idea of flowers blooming in Jaskier’s hair, surrounding him in love and warm smells, for them to appear. It drains his energy, and he pants as he keeps moving his body on his lover. 

They don’t last long after that, both of them shouting together as ecstasy run through their veins. In moments like these, they feel less like individuals, and more like one soul. Geralt and Jaskier, not Geralt or Jaskier. They are one, one throughout everything. 

They lay in bed with their legs intertwined afterwards, and Jaskier looks happier than he has since the first moment Geralt woke up after the poisoning. His breathing is peaceful, and his eyes are focused on the way their bodies are entangled together. It’s a peaceful moment, and Geralt steals another tender kiss, and then another one, simply because he can. He won’t deny himself any tenderness any more.

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispers when his lips are free once again. “You used my powers to give me flowers… Was that intentional?” 

Geralt shrugs. “Yes? I wanted to see you surrounded by as much beauty as possible… And I remember you mentioning that you loved those flowers…” 

Jaskier picks one of the buttercups and smiles tenderly. “Yes, I do. They mean joy and lightness. Did you know that that’s also the meaning of my name, Jaskier? It means buttercup… I’m impressed that you could summon them so easily…” 

“I thought of you,” Geralt answers with a shrug and caresses his lover’s face. I wanted to please you.” 

“You were already pleasing me plenty,” Jaskier grins and Geralt chuckles. “Thank you though. It felt strange to have you drawing on my power but… It also felt really good. Our bond is strengthening every day.”

Geralt nods. “You probably could use the witchers’ magic as well, if you wanted, but I don’t think that would be of much use to you. You have a widest range of magic available to you.” 

“I don’t need it, that’s true. But I would still like to know how to use your potions, and which of them does what, so that I can help you… Eskel gave you one before I healed you.” 

“I’ll teach you,” Geralt says and kisses his forehead. “Anything you want, I’ll teach you.” 

They lay quietly for a few more minutes before Jaskier starts giggling. When Geralt rises an inquisitive brow, his lover smiles tenderly and caresses his cheek. 

“I definitely missed that meeting now,” he whispers, and there is a teasing joy in his eyes that warm Geralt to his core. 

“I’m sure they managed without you,” he answers with a smile and a kiss to his lips. “I hate seeing you so worried though, my love.” 

“I know.” Jaskier sits up slowly and caresses Geralt’s hair, a tender, familiar gesture by now. “I didn’t mean to have _you_ worried though. I just… I want to be perfect for our people. I want to be able to lead them out of this war unscathed.” 

“It won’t happen,” Geralt looks up at him. “Wars are messy, and they are never without casualties. Your people have accepted that, and they have faith in your parents and you. Have faith in yourself as well, Jaskier. Know that you are stronger than what anyone else is expecting.” 

“I think most people have a certain knowledge of how powerful I am,” his lover says pensively, and caresses Geralt’s chin. “There is something strange about being repetitively called the Jewel of the Faes. And about their strong faith in me, when I’ve yet to do anything worthy of their trust. And don’t protest, I know what you’re about to say, but don’t let your love for me blind you. I may be a good prince, but I’ve not done much that warrants this much faith in me.” 

“You think there is something else your parents didn’t tell you?” Geralt sits up and kisses his lover’s palm “Something that would explain it?” 

“Not that they haven’t told me,” Jaskier continues and smiles softly, moving to the bathroom with him and cleaning himself up as he keeps speaking. “I remember a story my parents used to tell me when I was younger, about a Jewel that was crafted by a lowly miner who fell in love with a star… Something about the Jewel becoming brighter than all the other stars in the sky… I can’t remember it correctly though. It was so long ago.” 

“You think they were trying to tell you something?” Geralt washes himself, allowing himself the luxury of a quick bath, before quickly drying himself and following his fiancé back in their room. 

“Maybe? I’d need to think some more about it, but I think that perhaps they were giving me the riddle. I just need to figure out the key of it.” Jaskier stands in front of his wardrobe, and for the first time since he woke up from the poison, Geralt sees him considering with a frown his clothes. “What should I wear today?” 

The witcher lets out a chuckle of relief and he smiles, pulling on his usual black breeches. “Whatever pleases you.” 

Jaskier throws him an eye roll. “Then we would never leave this room, because I’m quite sure if I were to wear a corset again, you would not leave me out of your sight once more.” 

Licking his lips, Geralt takes in the naked form of his lover. “Perhaps.” 

Laughter escapes Jaskier in pearls. He comes to kiss his witcher, and Geralt drags him on his lap again. It’s a wonder to him, how much he loves _being_ with Jaskier, how much touching him and being touched by him sends happiness through his body and makes everything in his life more worthwhile. He can only hope that Jaskier feels even a tenth of what he does. 

“Alright, let’s not start again, my heart,” Jaskier teases and bites his lips lightly. “We’ll have plenty of time when Lenethor is dead at my feet. For now, I still need to dress.” 

Geralt doesn’t pout, but it’s near enough that Jaskier presses another light kiss to his lips before turning away. He simply adores the fae, more than he thought was possible.

“You haven’t worn one of your dresses since the attack,” Geralt remarks. “Why not?” 

“I haven’t felt like it,” Jaskier answers with a sigh. “I like wearing dresses when I feel sad and comfortable within the palace. I rarely wear them outside, because even if I don’t really understand the concept of male and female in human society, I know that I would not be kindly looked upon if I wear to wander outside in my most feminine outfits.” 

“You’re beautiful in them though,” Geralt comes closer and kisses his lips gently, more of a peck than anything. “Had I not been already in love with you the minute I saw you, I would have fallen for you in that dress you wore that first evening.” 

Jaskier chuckles and steals another kiss. “Thank you my love. I do love wearing a dress… Do you think today would be a good opportunity to wear one? I was thinking of perhaps practicing my swordsmanship with your brother and you. Perhaps I should wear breeches instead.” 

“Perhaps,” Geralt agrees. “Though, I would give quite a lot to see you fight in a skirt.” 

“Stop thinking with your cock, darling,” Jaskier teases. “I’ll wear a dress another day for you.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes but nods. “If you are so insistent on training with us, then I suppose breeches would be the best.” 

Jaskier pulls on golden breeches, with white floral motifs, and a white shirt. Over it all, he puts on a burgundy doublet, made of some velvety material, and hangs to his ears golden loops, before placing over his hair the flower crown his mother gave him. He takes one of the buttercups Geralt had brought to life and threads it through the crown, and its yellow hue clashes with the beautiful red, pink, and orange of flowers already there. To Geralt, it looks perfect. 

“Alright then,” Jaskier says with a smile and extends his hand to him. “Let’s get going.”

Geralt pulls on a simple blue shirt Jaskier gifted him, his boots, and takes the hand offered to him. 

They go to find Anathea and Armelle, who are standing side to side while looking at maps and reports. Armelle is biting her nails as they enter, and neither of them looks up. 

“I see you two have finally worked through your little blockage,” Eskel says from the side, and Geralt glares at his brother. 

Since his arrival, the other witcher has relaxed greatly, and Armelle and him have gotten along for than anyone could have guessed. They have, at whatever occasion they could, teased Jaskier and Geralt, trying to bring in some light despite the situation. Of course, that earned him the favour of Jaskier’s parents, who found it quite interesting that Geralt, who was only ever talkative with Jaskier, had such a lively brother. 

“Mind your words, brother,” he grumbles, and Eskel chuckles. 

“One can’t help to wonder why you two weren’t here to the earlier meeting, after all… A servant almost went to check on you, but I dissuaded them from bothering you. I suppose you should thank me, after all, you wouldn’t be looking so satisfied with yourselves if I hadn’t been there.” 

The witcher rises his goblet of ale to them and winks. Jaskier chuckles, and so does Armelle, and even Queen Anathea looks thoroughly amused. 

“Let’s hope that kind of mishap won’t happen again.” Anathea says with a slight grin, her eyes twinkling with mirth as she takes in her son’s appearance. “The generals were quite disappointed of not seeing you, Jaskier, but thankfully, Armelle and Eskel could fill in for your absence. As it turns out, a witcher and the prince’s favourite advisor are enough to convince battle hardened faes on some new defensive techniques. Truly, a wonder.” 

Jaskier maintains his composure, but Geralt can feel his slight guilt at having missed the meeting. Squeezing his hand, Geralt and him walk to the table, and they start talking plans with them. Eskel joins back in the conversation, and they get caught up on what they missed. The army, as much as it can be called this, is amassing to the Western border of the territory, and the Wild Ones are already there. 

It had taken a few explanations for Geralt to understand what the Wild Ones were. Even now, he isn’t fully certain he understands, but Jaskier had seemed enthused at the idea of them being present on their side.

“They are faes, of a sort,” he had explained a couple of days ago to Geralt and Eskel. “They don’t belong to any Court though, and their magic is… Strange. My mother told me that few faes of our kind could withstand a bond with them, because their magic is so ancient it feels almost godly. I don’t know how they live, but I know they are older than any fae alive. They don’t have children, I think. I’ve only ever met one Wild One, when my mother had a meeting with them. I was a kid and…” 

The breathless wonder on Jaskier’s face had surprised Geralt. He knows his fiancé, and there are few things that amaze him, not when it comes to magic. 

“They were unlike anyone I had ever met. I was astonished, and I don’t remember much but… I know that I could feel their magic around me, and I thought they weren’t faes. I thought their magic was too different. I asked my mother if they were a god,” he had chuckled. “She told me that they weren’t so far from them that the gods couldn’t be offended if one worshipped the Wild Ones.” 

After some more planning and deciding when they will all be moving to the battlefield, Geralt follows Jaskier and Eskel to the training courtyards. The two of them are chatting, teasing each other, and it makes warmth bloom happily in his chest. Both his families are mixing, learning to know each other, and he hopes that the others will like Jaskier as much as Eskel clearly does. He is the most anxious about introducing Jaskier to Vesemir. His old mentor has always been loving, but tough. He doesn’t know if he would approve of Geralt falling in love and binding his soul to a fae prince. 

Though, he thinks with a bit of humour, he has yet to meet anyone who doesn’t fall a little bit under Jaskier’s charm. His fiancé is a beautiful person, and Geralt is wholly convinced that there isn’t anyone who can resist him. 

“Are you going to smile sappily all day long or are we finally going to train?” Eskel smirks at him. 

They have stopped in what seems to be the training yards. There are faes training, swords clashing together and voices shouting, not always happily, but it is a familiar atmosphere, and Geralt feels a bit of Kaer Morhen when he was in his youth come up to him. Dozens of boys, lined up and joking, fighting and throwing themselves at each other, until an instructor shouted at them to stop. It’s a warm memory. 

“Right,” Geralt nods and draws out his steel sword. “Should we do this then?” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes at the two witchers. “I’m fighting the winner then.” 

Eskel’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “You fight?” 

“You saw me executing those traitors, didn’t you?” Jaskier challenges. “And you are capable of seeing the sword I carry, aren’t you?” 

“An execution is different from a fight,” the scarred man says, and Geralt bites back a grin. “You didn’t fight back against me when I arrived.” 

Jaskier steps back forwards and looks at Geralt. “Darling, if you don’t mind, I’ll be the first one to fight against your brother.” 

“Be my guest,” Geralt winks and draws him in for a kiss, whispering in his ear. “Go easy on him.” 

“I’ll try my best,” Jaskier grins and shrugs off his doublet. “Keep that safe for me.” 

Geralt goes to stand a bit farther away, and he notices that most of the fights have stopped. Everyone has left a wide circle for Eskel and Jaskier, and the faes training are gathering to watch their prince fight the witcher. It’s going to be interesting, Geralt thinks, and he crosses his arms, looking at his brother amusedly. Eskel looks too confident, too sure that he will win. After all, he hasn’t ever seen Jaskier fight. 

Geralt remembers the fight against the Stheno, remembers the pure rage and power contained in his lover. He had felt how much Jaskier had been holding back. There had been the physical bond, yes, but there had also been something else underneath. The fae hadn’t wanted to scare him off. 

It seems that now, ten days later, Jaskier has grown absolutely confident in the love Geralt has for him, and he has grown confident in his role as Prince as well. It would be amusing, how fast he did both, were it not for the very reality that he had to force himself to adapt to his new title fast so that he would no longer be caught off guard by news. He knows how much Jaskier still struggles with it. He has woken up in the middle of the night to his lover writing down his thoughts on paper that he throws away afterwards. One day, when they have more time, Geralt will make Jaskier talk about it. They will talk about his lost sister, talk about what it means to discover that he is the prince of a whole kingdom so suddenly. He won’t bring it up now though, because he knows Jaskier isn’t ready to talk about it. He respects that. 

“Are you sure you want to fight wearing that?” Eskel looks at the golden, flower-embroidered pants, and at the lack of shoes. “You might get dirty.” 

Jaskier’s sharp teeth shows as he grins widely. “I assure you, I don’t mind getting dirty. You should ask your brother about it one of those days.” 

Geralt groans but doesn’t react beyond that. He’ll let them have their banter, let them tease and bark at each other. He can’t exactly make them stop anyway. 

Jaskier takes his sword out of its sheath, and it’s not the elegant, thin sword that he sometimes carry for decoration, but rather his hand and a half longsword. It’s not too heavy looking, and Geralt knows from experience that a blade like this can hurt more than it looks. It fits in Jaskier’s right hand perfectly, and suddenly there is a flash of doubt on Eskel’s face. 

Still, Geralt’s brother advances and attacks first, strong and fast, just like any good witcher should be. He and Geralt have been trained the same manner, have learnt together to fight, and it amuses Geralt to see his own techniques being used against Jaskier in such a way. 

Jaskier doesn’t parry the hit. He simply moves out of the way, faster than even a witcher can see, and his sword is at Eskel’s throat. 

“Want a rematch?” He is lightly teasing, but his eyes are set and magic crackles under his feet, in a way only Geralt can feel through their bond. 

“That wasn’t exactly fair,” Eskel growls. “You used magic.” 

“You agreed to fight a fae, I wouldn’t think you’d expect that I didn’t. But you’re right, I won’t use it again. Put myself to your level, if you will.” 

Eskel rolls his eyes and they take back their positions. This time, it’s Jaskier who attacks first. It’s a clear forward motion, a simple blow aiming for Eskel’s stomach. Clearly, he is making fun of Eskel, going down much below either of their skills. Faes are tricksters, Geralt is reminded, and no matter how warm and loving Jaskier is, there is a part of him that loves to tease and mock, to make others cry out in frustration. 

Eskel doesn’t take to the bait, but he does parry the hit, and the two of them are started in a deadly exchange. Eskel is all heavy stances and strong hits, and he manages to hit Jaskier a few times, but the fae dominates the fight in a manner Geralt is struggling to fathom. 

He doesn’t use any magic, Geralt would feel the pull otherwise, but there is something that is truly out of this world in the way Jaskier fights. His movements are full of grace, something out of an enchantment, and Geralt watches, learning the way he holds and twists his sword, the way he seems to float when he jumps to avoid one of Eskel’s dirty tricks. There is, however, a slight imbalance in the way he fights. Like he isn’t used to having only one sword.

It’s common for people using longsword to have another sword, or a dagger, and the white haired witcher can definitely see Jaskier fighting that way. It fits him, using his whole body to do every single task he sets his mind to. Every single step, every single blow and parry has a purpose, just the way they should, and Geralt is a bit amazed. 

He had known without really knowing, how strong Jaskier really is. It comes evident when he sidesteps Eskel, extending his left food to trip the man, and then hits his elbow harshly, sending shocks of pain and surprise through the witcher. Eskel lets go of his sword in his surprise, and Jaskier catches it. 

Not a second later, Eskel’s own sword is at his throat, and he is face first into the ground. Jaskier’s knees are digging deep into his back, and Geralt grimaces. This is bound to hurt. 

“You were saying, about me knowing how to fight?” The self satisfaction is evident in Jaskier’s voice and Geralt chuckles. 

“Fine,” Eskel growls, and he tries moving, but only his hips shift slightly. His shoulders barely tremble. “Get off me.” 

With a smirk, Jaskier lifts the Witcher’s sword away from his throat and plants it into the soft ground, until it is nearly half buried. He gets up gracefully, as if the movement means nothing to him, and he walks back to Geralt, sheathing his sword again.

“Was I easy enough on him?” He rises an eyebrow expectantly. 

“I don’t think you know the meaning of that expression,” Geralt answers and pulls Jaskier’s doublet back over his shoulders, helping him button it up again without caring that all the faes are still watching them. “Do all faes fight like you?” 

“Not really,” Jaskier shrugs and then turns to Eskel. “You alright over there?” 

The witcher is looking a bit put out, but he shakes his head and smiles slightly. “I’ll admit, I’ve been making a lot of wrong assumptions about you, Jaskier.” 

“You, making an ass of yourself? How surprising.” 

Both Geralt and Eskel startle at the voice, and Jaskier gives an inquisitive look at that. 

Following three faes with spears and light silver armours, Lambert is grinning. At his side walks a slightly amused Aiden, shaking his dark hair and looking around curiously. 

Lambert is close to them in an instant, and he embraces Geralt tightly, an embrace returned by the white haired witcher. It feels so good to have his brothers with him like this. They rarely, if ever, cross paths during the year, only ever staying in Kaer Morhen in the winters. It’s a surprise to see Aiden as well. 

The cat witcher is not known to like meddling in affairs that don’t concern monsters, but he and Lambert were probably together when the wolf witcher received Geralt’s message. And if Lambert had told him he was going to join his brothers for a war, there was no way Aiden would let his lover go alone. 

After all, witchers are fierce and protective lovers. 

“You had not told us we were going to walk into the faes’ home,” Lambert clasps Geralt on the shoulder after embracing Eskel as well. “Could have done with a warning.” 

“A warning for what,” Jaskier asks, voice sweet but eyes shining slightly. “The mean faes that would snatch you?” 

Lambert looks him up and down, and a frown settles on his face. “Who the fuck are you?” 

Geralt is about to snap at his brother, but Aiden is faster and elbows his partner in the ribs harsh enough to have him keel over. 

“Fuck, Aiden!” 

But Aiden ignores him and instead bows his head to Jaskier. “Your Highness.” 

Lambert then gets a good look at Jaskier and notices the crown over his hair, the way all the faes are looking at him with fury in their eyes, and he seems to catch on. 

“Fuck, Geralt, you’re fucking the King?” 

“Lambert, you absolute idiot,” Eskel sighs, but before he can continue, Jaskier is laughing, bright and loud. 

It’s a bright thing that echoes in the early afternoon air, and the tension that had been building up slowly falls again, until most faes’ hands are away from their weapons. Some even get disinterested and go back to training, and Geralt feels glad for the lessening of the audience. 

“Your brother is charming, my love,” Jaskier says to Geralt, and bows his head to Aiden. “You must be the cat witcher. Geralt told me about you, it’s a pleasure to have you in our home.” 

Aiden nods and looks at Lambert expectantly now. The ginger still looks confused, looking back and forth between Geralt and Jaskier, and then he nods shortly. 

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles half-heartedly. “Didn’t realize you were-“ 

“The prince of the faes, on whose side you’ll be fighting?” Jaskier smiles maliciously. “I gathered. Welcome to our home, Lambert.” 

He turns to Geralt after that and kisses his cheek. “I’ll be training with my people, I’ll let you catch your brother up to speed, and explain our situation?” 

His fingers tangle in Geralt’s hair gently, and Geralt obeys the unspoken command; he kisses him softly and gives him a tender smile. 

“We’ll come train with you in a bit,” he says, “We need to know how to fight against faes if we are to fight against Lenethor’s men as well.” 

“I’d rather have you safe and protected but I would have more luck taming a wild wolf than that scenario happening,” he sighs a bit, theatrical, and steals another kiss before leaving. 

The audience of faes has completely dispersed by that point and Geralt punches his brother in the stomach. 

“Stop being such a dick to everyone,” he growls. “Would it kill you to have some manners?” 

Lambert groans slightly but doesn’t punch back, which is already a surprise, and he takes a handful of seconds to recover.

“‘My love’?” Lambert asks, surprised. “What the fuck was that?” 

“Lambert, Geralt is clearly in a relationship with the prince. What do you not understand about that?” Aiden’s voice is full of fond annoyance. “Do I need to explain to you how a relationship works or is your brain going to work again soon?” 

“He didn’t say anything about it in his message,” Lambert protests. 

“I didn’t think you would insult my fiancé on sight,” Geralt snaps. 

“Your fiancé?” 

“You have so much to hear about,” Eskel pats his brother’s shoulder lightly. “Wait until you meet Lady Armelle. She’s going to destroy you.” 

“What the actual fuck?” Lambert looks between his brothers, growing more confused by the second. “Could anyone explain exactly what kind of alternate fucking dimension I walked into?” 

It takes them a little while, but Eskel and Geralt manage to explain to Lambert and Aiden the situation. Geralt is made to go over most of the soul bond he has with Jaskier in details, and when he has to affirm for the third time that yes, he made that choice with his full mental capacities, and no, there is no curse that has been put on him, he launches himself at his brother. 

It feels good to roughhouse with his brother again, and he laughs a bit. Eskel and Aiden look at the two of them fighting on the ground, and sighs. But still, when they get up, they are both more relaxed, and Lambert apologizes. After a bit, some more explanation, Aiden and Lambert leave to go put their packs away, and Geralt and Eskel join in the training. 

A few days are spent like this. They are all tense, waiting for the conflict to start properly, but they keep training and preparing. As Eskel had predicted, Armelle takes one look at Lambert and tears him down, at the greatest delight of his brothers. Anathea and Eryos seem to like him and Aiden well enough too, and Geralt feels warmth spreading through him as his family blends in and gets used to Jaskier’s. 

A week after Aiden and Lambert’s arrival, Anathea calls them all as they are training, and Geralt feels an unexpected dread settle in his stomach. He grips Jaskier’s hand tightly. 

“We are leaving in the afternoon,” the Queen announces, and her eyes are filled with fear, but she stands proud and regal. “Lenethor’s troops will be upon our western borders in two days, according to the scouts. We’ll have the advantage of the land, but they have the numbers.” 

She comes closer to her son and caresses his cheek lightly. “And we’ll have you. All of you.” 

They all feel the solemnity of the moment, and Jaskier tightens its hold on Geralt’s hand. The war is finally here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week!! Battle time :D I also trimmed down the number of chapters, so we are now at 9 chapters!! Next week is the final chapter, and after that it'll be time for a very, very sweet epilogue... :D 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this! Don't hesitate to leave a comment or kudos!! And come talk to me on tumblr (@saltytransidiot)! I might even take some writing prompts ;) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> (Also... this is never beta-ed, listen, sometimes you just write and don't make sense and thats. okay.)
> 
> (If anyone is too horrified by the lack of beta and wants to volunteer... pls i will love u forever)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle happens, and some friends are hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! 
> 
> This chapter is shorter than they usually are, simply because battle scenes can be exhausting to read and write, and I wanted to keep it the rest in the next chapter ;) 
> 
> Thanks a lot to Kakaobohne for beta-reading this chapter! 
> 
> TW for blood, battle, near death... ye olde battlefield ? :D 
> 
> Enjoy!

The morning is cold when Geralt finishes lacing up his armour. Jaskier’s and his pavilion is warmed by magic so that they can still have some comfort, but the witcher had wanted to see the battlefield again, to know better the field he would be defending his new people on. 

It’s a strange realization for him, that he now belongs to more than just the witchers of Kaer Morhen. He has spent decades apart from society, but now he has found people who look at him and see beyond the witcher. Sure, some of them see him only as Jaskier’s bonded soul, but it doesn’t bother him. Better that than the abomination of nature that humans think him to be. Better to be known for the love he has than for the violence he has brought into the world by slaying monsters. 

He wonders if he could ever retire. Stop hunting monsters, settle down with Jaskier, maybe even rule by his side. He doesn’t believe he would be any competent at it, but he has seen Jaskier talking with the soldiers, talking with everyone who is here now. Even to the Wild Ones. Jaskier was born and raised to be a King, and it makes Geralt’s whole body thrum with happiness. This man  _ chose _ him, and has been choosing him every day since they met. 

“Enjoying a morning stroll?” 

Armelle appears by his side and he smiles at the young lady. She has taken in stride everything that has happened, and has been helping with the preparations for the battle that is to happen today. When Lenethor had sent a formal declaration of war, she had been the one to kill the fae who had tried to attack Eryos as he was brushing his horse. The blood on her dress and face the day before had been cause for celebration; the first kill of the war is theirs. 

“Making sure that I know where we will be going,” Geralt answers. “You?” 

“Saw you wandering alone and thought you could use some company.” 

She smiles, her sharp teeth shining in the grey morning light. It’s a day fit for battle, with no sun streaming in to give them any clear light. There are a few magical lights hovering above their camp, and he can see the faint outline of the same lights on the opposite side of the field. 

“What do you think are our chances?” He asks her, not looking towards her. 

His eyes are still scanning the horizon, trying to make sense of the enemy’s defences, when she answers. 

“We will win.” Her voice is assured, not smug but certain, the way he has only heard fervent believers say. “We might lose people… But we will win. Lenethor will never succeed, not when we are in our home. We will fight tooth and nail, and we won’t stop until Lenethor’s body is at our Queen’s feet.” 

The determination in her voice surprises him slightly, and he wonders where her faith comes from. He has so much to learn still about faes, so much to understand. He wants to and has been trying his hardest, but in moments like these, when a fae says something that makes him falter in his steps, the contrast is truly startling. 

“I’ll stand by your side then,” Geralt says. “Are you not afraid at all?” 

She laughs at that. “Shitless. Not for myself, but for my husband. He is a softer soul than I am, and while I trust his abilities to fight, I worry that he will pity them and try to help them. He is too good for them.” 

“You love him quite a lot,” Geralt observes softly. “He must be quite the happy man to have his soul linked to yours.” 

“What, is that the White Wolf himself, complimenting me?” She grins and elbows him lightly, and he chuckles. “Yes, I love him. He’s the light of my days. I’m sure you understand.” 

Geralt snorts and nods. Just thinking about Jaskier has him warm, so yes, he understands. 

He doesn’t have to worry about Jaskier being too soft on the battlefield. He can feel Jaskier’s anger and bloodlust beating inside him, a slow but sure thrum that keeps him on his toes. It’s interesting, the way Jaskier fluctuates between those intense emotions, and yet his face remains pleasant and controlled. The prince always has a kind word for his subjects, and while he has quite the fair amount of bite, Geralt has yet to see him lose composure. Well, besides the time he was poisoned, but special occasions. 

“Jaskier will be fine,” Armelle says, putting a hand on his arm as she turns away, looking back to the camp. “He’s stronger than he knows.” 

“May the gods protect you,” he says gently.

He has heard humans say this so many times, and he does not wish for anything to happen to her. He doesn’t believe in the gods, has never given them much thought if he is honest with himself, but there is something reassuring about the idea that someone may protect the ones Geralt loves. 

She smiles. “The mortal gods can do nothing for me. I pray to the Wild Ones, Geralt, and you would be wise to do so as well.” 

She leaves after that, her silver armour glinting in the rising light. It’ll be a day to remember. 

—

Geralt grunts as the first of Lenethor’s faes attack their ranks. He had been between Eskel and Jaskier, their shoulders brushing together, but now that they are fighting, now that blood is flying all over, they find themselves separated. Geralt still feels the tug of Jaskier’s soul, so he doesn’t worry. 

His silver sword buries itself in the bellies and hearts of many a fae. He dances across the battlefield, a fury of movements, and he catches glimpses of his brothers as they fight together. 

They had all elected to be on the first line, and Geralt had even argued with Jaskier about it, who had wanted them to stay with the ranks in the middle, so that they may be protected. 

“There can always be more faes,” Jaskier had whispered angrily when he and Geralt had been standing away from the group where the other witchers and the fae leaders had been debating the organization of the battlefield. “There can’t be any other witchers!” 

“There will never be another you,” Geralt had snapped back. “You said it yourself, those are my people now too. If you want to protect them, so do I. And I won’t cower behind because I may die. If I die, I die by your side, and nowhere else.” 

“You can’t die,” Jaskier had pleaded back. “Please, just this once, make the safer choice.” 

“I’m making the right choice. What will your people think, if they see my brothers and me cowering in the middle, when your family is in the front? Your father is human, and no one is fighting him to stay behind!” 

“Don’t you think my mother and I tried?” Jaskier had looked almost hurt. “Your lives are so fragile, and you were poisoned and almost died and-“ 

“And you healed me,” Geralt had interrupted and caressed his lover’s cheek. “I know you are worried, and so am I. But I am a witcher, and even more importantly, I am your consort. My brothers and Aiden have sworn to fight by our side, so please, my love. Please let me fight alongside you. Grant us that honour.” 

It had, in the end, melted Jaskier, although the fae hadn’t been too happy about the situation. 

Geralt grunts as an arrow finds his thigh and penetrates the muscle, slowing down his movements ever so slightly. He breaks it quickly, leaving the tip in to keep the bleeding to a minimum. Healers will be able to take care of this later. Right now, he needs to focus on the fight. 

“Lambert!” A scream, loud in the air, and Geralt turns his head as he slashes across a fae’s throat. 

Aiden is standing, furious, battling three faes at once, and despite the inhuman strength that the witcher possesses, he looks to be in a bad position. Geralt can’t see Lambert anywhere, so he can only assume that he has fallen to the ground somewhere, and is wounded. 

They aren’t too far, maybe ten feet away, so Geralt makes his way towards Aiden. It takes him longer than he would have anticipated, and his silver sword is coated with thick black blood when he arrives near them. Steel should have been enough, but it had quickly become apparent that they were half monsters, that the curse on them was too strong. 

Aiden has a mad look in his golden eyes and his teeth, almost as sharp as a fae’s, are showing as he pushes himself back and forth between his enemies. He is holding two swords in his hands, and Geralt realizes with a jolt of fear that one of them is Lambert’s, and that the absolute fury emanating from his brother in law is almost magical in its nature. 

Geralt pierces one of Aiden’s opponents through his skull, and now that he is free from one distraction, the cat witcher jumps and moves even faster, a blur in the eyes, and quickly the two others fall to the ground. Their faces are torn to shred, and their armours are lacerated, black blood oozing out of the gaping wounds. 

Lambert is on the ground, an arrow lodged in his stomach and in his throat, and he looks paler than death. He is breathing though, his chest rising with difficulty, and his hand is grasping to Aiden as he tries to talk and move. 

Falling to his knees, Geralt cradles his brother in his arms. He tries not to let the pain and anger overwhelm him, but there is only so much he can do when Lambert is dying. 

“I’m bringing him to the healers,” Geralt says to Aiden, but the cat shakes his head. 

“I’m faster than you, and you need to stay on the battlefield, make sure that Eskel and your fae are doing alright. I’ll make sure that he is safe, I swear.” Aiden’s voice is cracked, worry and anger clear as he slowly lifts his lover in his arms. “Kill them all for me.” 

Geralt doesn’t have the time to swear to do so before the cat witcher is off in a sprint, and he has to go back to fighting. 

His anger fuels him, making him growl and snarls at his enemies, and he uses his signs to throw magic back at the opponents who use their own against him. Jaskier had made sure all the witchers had magical protection, but the shields aren’t infallible. Every once in a while, Geralt will feel a jolt of pain as a spell hits him, but it never stops him long enough. Jaskier’s people stand by his side and protect him when it happens. 

They fall too, and their blood is red as it gushes to the earth. They all go down with a grin on their faces though, and Geralt realizes why as he feels his connection to Jaskier growing. 

They are feeding the royal family’s magic with their own, their last sacrifice for the freedom of their people. 

— 

Jaskier keeps trying to find his way back to Geralt, but the white haired witcher is nowhere to be seen. Eskel is nearby, and so is Armelle, but besides the brief moment where he glimpsed his fiancé running to Aiden, Jaskier has completely lost sight of him. He feels him through their bond, and he can feel that he is alive and fighting, but every few moments, there is a small prick of pain running through Jaskier, and then his fury doubles again. 

They have been fighting for at least two hours by now. Jaskier is starting to feel tired, his body dreading lifting his sword, but his magic compensates for the tiredness. He can feel the pool of power of his people growing, and each time there is a new surge of power, grief threatens to overwhelm him. These are his people, giving their life and powers to him and his family, because they have faith in him. 

A few of the Wild Ones are fighting alongside him, and their powers are so vast he wonders how they are not gods. Their skin is dark, and their large brown eyes contain the secret of the universe, and when they move, it’s faster than anyone would have thought. They are not faes, they are more than that, and Jaskier feels so small next to them, and yet… He feels a sort of kinship towards them. 

They have accepted him as one of their own, strangely enough. His magic is lesser than theirs, more quiet and controlled, while he has seen one of them shift reality for a second, to make it to their advantage. He doesn’t envy them though. They must have given up something, something bigger and greater than any fae can imagine, to be able to wield this much magic. Is that why he almost doesn’t recognize them as faes when they line up with him, when their magic touches him? 

He doesn’t have the time to wonder more. An arrow is hurling in the air towards Eskel, who is fighting a couple of opponents, and Jaskier runs, leaps in the air, and his sword slices the arrow through its centre. It’s a magical feeling, something better than anything he has felt in years. 

Even if he doesn’t want to admit it, Jaskier knows that, deep down, he loves fighting. He hates killing, hates seeing his people be endangered and die this way, but there is something entrancing about fighting. It’s a whole dance, something that engages all his senses, and he finds himself calm, despite the anger beating in his chest. 

It’s a strange mix. His golden armour, matching his parents’, is spattered with blood, and his feelings run high, sometimes taking over him and making him even more of an enraged opponent, but there is an undercurrent of calm underneath it all. His magic perhaps, or simply the fact that he can see his people winning over, slowly but surely. 

There is a shriek in the air and his blood chills. He knows the voice, knows that scream. It’s the first time he hears it with this much pain though, and suddenly he is running towards the sound, running and killing without looking at his opponents. 

Armelle is on the ground, sobbing as she holds her husband’s broken body against her. There is blood spattering her as she holds him, and Jaskier can see that she is wounded, can see the way that her left shoulder is torn and broken, but she is holding Toren’s body anyway. She seems to have forgotten the battle raging around her in her grief. Her sword is nowhere in sight, and there is a figure looming over her. 

It doesn’t take more than half a second for Jaskier to know who that figure is. The crooked, thorny crown that rests upon a cruel brow, the fully black eyes that have forgone all humanity and all sanity. He can recognize the description of Lenethor, the usurper king. 

The calm he had thought he felt completely evaporates as he sees Armelle uncaring that their enemy is on the point of killing her. So Jaskier yells, and his magic explodes in the air. 

Lenethor’s sword breaks apart in a thousand pieces, and the iron pierces the usurper’s skin, making him shout in pain. Lenethor let’s go of what remains of his sword and wipes away the blood falling from his eyes as he turns to Jaskier. 

“Princeling,” he grins, pulling a sword from the hand of one of his soldiers, who stumbles and dies of a sword to her chest. 

Lenethor’s voice is as displeasing as his appearance, and it makes Jaskier’s skin crawl with the need to kill. There is something so absolutely abhorrent about the fae. 

If Jaskier had to compare it to something, he would say that it was the absolute opposite of the Wild Ones. Where they are boundless grace and unnatural existence, a touch of the gods on this earth, Lenethor is a despicable runt of the earth, an insect that crawled until it was given a form, and who then proceeded to slaughter everything it saw. It’s the worst kind of bloodsucker there is on the Continent. 

Jaskier snarls. “Lenethor.” 

There is a flash of anger in the other’s eyes as he moves toward Jaskier. “It’s Your Highness, to you.” 

“You are no king,” Jaskier snaps and attacks, his sword aiming for the throat of his opponent. “I have met cockroaches better suited to royalty than you will ever be.” 

“Did your mother not teach you manners?” Lenethor parries his blow. “How disappointing, I thought dear old Anathea would at least be able to not fail in motherhood the second time around.” 

“Don’t you dare talk about my mother,” Jaskier yells. 

He attacks again, faster and more furious, his movements blurring. Still, Lenethor is an excellent fighter, and Jaskier would almost say he is better than himself, but he still has some pride. He won’t let such a bastard damage his family, damage his people, anymore. 

So he draws on the pool of power that has been gathering, throws spells after spells as he keeps crossing swords with the fae who took everything away from his family. The fae who had sent the monster that killed Jaskier’s sister after Jaskier’s people. The fae who had nearly ruined Jaskier’s bonding ceremony to Geralt. 

He feels a wave of energy and his magic wraps itself around Lenethor, slowly squeezing him, and the false king lets go of his sword with a strangled choke. 

Jaskier turns around to look at Armelle, and she screams as he does so. He had missed the dagger at Lenethor’s belt, but now that it is aiming at his throat, now that he can feel its sharp point against his skin, slowly sinking into his flesh, he can’t miss it anymore. 

Suddenly, he is yanked backwards and unto the ground, and a golden figure, wrapped in a similar armour as his own, stands over him. 

The last time he had seen her had been before the battle, and her hair had been drawn into a tight bun, her eyes set in angry resignation. She had been shining in the morning light, and he had thought she was every bit the fairy tale queen that he had thought her to be as a child. 

Now, her armour is splattered with black spots, a trickle of blood runs from her nose through her mouth and chin, and her hair is half out of her bun, some of it having been hacked away. She has lost the flowers that had been weaved into her hair, but she still looks more the royal part than Lenethor. 

“Don’t you dare touch my son.” Her voice is clear in the battle, and the raging fighting taking place around them dies down slowly as the two royals snarl around each other. 

“It’s such a delight to see you again, Anathea,” Lenethor says through gritted teeth. He doesn’t have a sword anymore, but the dagger is still in his hands, Jaskier’s blood pearling on it. “I for sure thought you would be dead with your human mate by now.” 

“I can’t say I’m sorry to disappoint,” she growls and she moves, her sword describing a perfect arch. “You are a curse upon our world, traitor.” 

“Such big words,” Lenethor avoids the hit, trying to find another sword to use. “What would your father say?” 

“He would be proud,” the Queen snarls. “Proud that I am the Queen of a thriving people while yours are dying, sick from your poison!” 

Jaskier crawls to Armelle and Toren, avoiding his mother’s elaborate steps to avoid the usurper’s blow. When he finally reaches his friend and her husband, he gasps slowly as he realizes Toren is still breathing, although it is weak and leaving slowly. 

“Armelle,” he croaks, his throat hurting from the dagger that had nearly pierced it. “He’s breathing!” 

She startles at his voice, and then seems to understand the words he managed to get out. Her eyes are fierce and alight with determination as she grips his hand. 

“I can’t do it alone,” she begs, and he nods, opening to her the vast power he feels residing within him. 

She draws onto his strength, closes her eyes as she heals her husband ever so slightly. She just needs to bring him back, to make him hold onto life until she can bring him to the healers. 

He recites the spells with her, although every single word hurts. He owes her this much, owes her so much more in fact. He would die for her, although he has a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate it very much. 

There is a cry that interrupts him and his mother holds her wounded arm for a quarter of a second before she is back to attacking. Grunts and yells are commonplace between the two, who seem to be fairly evenly matched. Still, Jaskier can see his mother slowly gaining territory, the wound on her arm nothing compared to what she inflicts on Lenethor. 

Armelle’s breathing becomes easier as Toren emits a groan of pain, something that at least indicates some amount of consciousness. She looks at Jaskier and grabs his sword. 

“I’ll be borrowing this for a minute,” she states with a voice harsh like the silver edge of a sword. 

He only nods and watches as she stands up, leaning on his sword. She is limping, her left shoulder is broken, but she is a proud warrior. 

_ Lady Armelle _ , he thinks with the hint of a smile peeking through his grime façade, _ protector of the soul bond. _

Jaskier’s friend doesn’t yell, doesn’t scream. She simply swings the sword she is holding right into Lenethor’s face, and it catches on the usurper’s chin, slashing through his lips, nose and eye. 

Anathea doesn’t hesitate for an instant. Her sword drives into Lenethor’s neck, and the usurper dies, his head falling to the ground and rolling away. 

A fresh gust of air passes through the battlefield, and the loud clanks of weapons being tossed to the ground is heard. Jaskier could weep of joy. 

Two strong arms lift him up, and he finds himself pressed against Geralt’s torso. He breathes in his husband-to-be’s scent and lets it wash over him. 

  
They’ve  _ won _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guys know that next chapter's the last one? I'm emotional about it :'D I can't wait to see what yall think about this chapter! 
> 
> As always, don't hesitate to leave a comment or kudos, or come check me out on tumblr (@saltytransidiot)!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle is over, and now they get to heal and love each other, for the rest of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooo, I'm hella late!!
> 
> I meant for this chapter to be up ten days ago, but then real life caught up with me, I hated my first draft of the chapter, and then real life gutted me, so it's here now lmao 
> 
> I really love it anyway, and I'm glad I took the time I did to write it! I hope you'll enjoy the Soft Content™ that went into this chapter!! 
> 
> Thanks y'all for sticking with me!

It’s quiet on the battlefield as everyone looks around, but Jaskier doesn’t move from where he is against Geralt’s chest. He is tired, and he wants some proper rest, but he can’t. They don’t have the time after all. Even if the battle is over, even if the enemy surrenders, there are still many things to organize, wounds to tend to, people to bury… 

But Jaskier stays buried against Geralt’s chest. He lets the tears that have been threatening to overwhelm him fall, and he breaks the connection he has to his people’s magic. He doesn’t want their pledge to give him power anymore, never wanted it in the first place. It binds them in a way that’s unnatural. Faes are made to be free, to live within nature without constraints. This oath was taking that from them all. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, a soft sound that only reaches Jaskier’s ears. “Are you alright?” 

The Fae Prince isn’t quite sure Geralt actually spoke the words, and he isn’t quite sure either what to answer. Is he alright? 

Physically, he supposes alright is one way of describing it. He isn’t overly wounded, most of the pain he feels is actually Geralt’s, and although his arms are sore and he has a light incision on his throat, he feels fine. 

Mentally, however, is another matter. Despite the fact that they won, the fact that the threat over Jaskier’s life, over his family’s life and his people’s peace, is over, there is something that bothers him. It is not unlike feeling residue of overuse of magic. He is exhausted, and yet at the same time, he knows he will not be able to rest until there is  _ something _ that is done. Now, if he could actually know what that something is… 

He mumbles something against Geralt’s chest, but he doesn’t know what he is trying to say. He doesn’t know what he should say. He just wants to forget everything for an instant, bask in the presence of the witcher holding him. He has had so little time to enjoy his love, so little time to enjoy loving and being loved. 

“I didn’t catch that,” Geralt says gently, his knuckle brushing against the tip of Jaskier’s ear. “Mind repeating it for me?” 

Jaskier finally removes his head from where it was placed and instead rests his chin on Geralt’s shoulder, whispering in his ear so softly he can barely hear himself. 

“I’m alright. We deserve some rest after this, don’t we? Some quiet and peace…” 

“We do,” the witcher agrees, passing a tender hand in Jaskier’s hair. “I will find us quiet and peace, I promise.” 

Jaskier smiles tenderly, and Geralt turns his head, catching his lips in a soft kiss. They are both grimy and covered in sweat, blood spattering their hands and faces, and their armours are even filthier, but for a moment, everything is right in the world. In that one kiss, the world realigns itself, and Jaskier feels a breath of life entering his lungs, feels his heartbeat slowing down to allow for the gentleness of the trees to grow within him. 

“Marry me,” he breathes out when their lips separate. “Marry me, Geralt of Rivia, and be my Consort, officially. Stay by my side… I’ll never deny you your freedom, I shall always be your protector and your devoted lover, I swear to love you to the end of my days…” 

Geralt is a bit stunned. His golden eyes shine with the fading afternoon light, but he nods after a few more seconds of surprised staring. His hand comes to rest on Jaskier’s cheek as his nods increase, and they kiss again, both of them ignoring the tears running down their cheeks. These are tears of joy, tears of celebration, and those should never be kept away. 

“I’ll marry you,” he finally manages to say, his lips still brushing against Jaskier’s. “I’ll marry you a hundred times if that’s what you want, I just want to be with you. To love you, and be loved by you.” 

Their foreheads rest against one another for a few moments, and then Geralt seems to remember where they are. He doesn’t move back much, but he does look beyond Jaskier, at Anathea and Armelle, who are both crouching next to Toren, magic pouring from their hands as they heal him slowly. 

“Your Highness,” Geralt starts, only to be interrupted by Anathea. 

“Oh, do call me mother now. You are almost my son in law at this point, and if my son gets his way, you’ll be that by the end of the day.” 

She is smiling softly, but there are lines of worries around her eyes. She looks tired too, the gold of her armour painted black with the blood from the Fae, and Jaskier wonders how they will heal from this.

After all, they killed their own kin. There were probably brothers and sisters, cousins and parents of Faes that were within Anathea’s court. All those who had stayed behind, all those who had followed Lenethor and his twisted mind… They were their subjects, their families and friends. 

_ The madness of one man almost lead us to our ultimate destruction _ , Jaskier sighs to himself as he steps away from Geralt, finding his sword abandoned on the ground. 

He is reaching for it, vaguely hearing Geralt asking a question, when one of the Wild Ones appears in front of him. 

The woman looks far older than the world, and at the same time she retains the youthfulness of a Fae who has just passed their first three decades. Her eyes are two brown pools of mud, deep and unreadable, but she extends her closed fist towards Jaskier. There is something hidden there, a chain dangling off from between two dark skinned fingers. 

“For you, Prince Jaskier, Jewel of the Fae.”

Her voice stops all the noises that had slowly been picking back up, and Jaskier realizes that, wherever he looks, the Wild Ones are surrounding them. 

“What is it?” He demands, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “What have you gifted me?” 

She shakes her fist slightly and he understands the motion, so he swiftly takes whatever she has in her hand in his own. “Will you answer my questions now?” 

“The Prince must look within himself to know the answers,” the Wild One answers, her eyes glistening as she retreats amongst her people. “The Prince must listen to our Mother.” 

The Wild Ones fade away after that, disappearing within the crowd, and nobody tries to stop them. They aren’t exactly blurs, Jaskier can distinguish their movements, can see one’s hair whipping to the side as they jump over an obstacle. He doesn’t do anything to stop them though. In his hands, he clutches the gift. 

“Where are they going,” Armelle asks, a bit panicked. “Aren’t they going to help us with the rest of Lenethor’s army?” 

“They won’t be an issue anymore,” Geralt answers, and Jaskier frowns a bit, looking at his lover. “Look around yourself. They are in no shape to fight now.” 

Jaskier turns to where Geralt has just pointed. In the opposite direction of where the Wild Ones have disappeared, the rest of Lenethor’s army is crumbling to the ground, clutching themselves with despair as they appear to burn from within, their mouths open in a soundless scream. Their hands are clawing at their faces, and some of them have started bleeding, the thick black blood a proof of their body having been corrupted by dark magic. 

Without meaning to, without really thinking about why, Jaskier walks closer to them, past his mother and Armelle. Geralt is on his trails, and Jaskier can hear him speaking, but he can’t really hear the words that his fiancé says. He doesn’t know how or why, but there is something about them calling to him. His palm, the one holding the gift from the foreign Faes, is shaking, slight tremors that run up his right arm and make his teeth clack against one another.

“Jaskier, what’s going on,” he finally hears Geralt say, feeling a hand on his shoulder. 

He doesn’t turn. Instead, he looks down and opens his fingers. 

The gift is, as he had suspected, a necklace, with a stone, about as big as his thumb and bluer than the ocean on a summer day, mounted on it. There is something oddly familiar as he looks at it, as if he had seen it before. It calls to him, makes him want to do… something. He has no idea what, doesn’t even know why he thinks this way. After all, he has never seen this stone before. He would know it. He would remember the feeling rising in his chest, like absolute certainty that he must act, and deep-rooted trust in himself. 

He looks at Geralt then, and his lover frowns, stepping closer and gently taking his face in his hands. Geralt’s hands are so warm on his skin, so comforting. It’s a wonder, a delight, that Jaskier can know them so well already. There are so many things he still has to discover about Geralt, so many things Geralt has to discover about Jaskier too, but when they are together, there is something special that happens. He doesn’t know if that is normal or not, doesn’t know whether or not others experience it that way, but there is a voice in the back of his mind that tells him that no, this is different. They are different. 

“Put it on me,” he whispers gently and presses the necklace against Geralt’s chest. “Please, my love.” 

“What is it? You look shaken, Jaskier, talk to me…” Geralt pleads softly as he passes the necklace around Jaskier’s neck. “Tell me what’s going on, let me help you.” 

Jaskier takes one of Geralt’s hands and kisses it softly, his lips pressing against his lover’s knuckles. “I would, if I could, dear heart. I promise to you, I would tell you everything if I could.” 

Geralt looks confused, but he nods. “I trust you.” 

Jaskier steps back slightly and feels warmth on his neck, where the necklace rests. He closes his eyes, and breathes in deeply, trying to ignore the worry from Geralt. 

— 

The Jewel of the Fae groans as they wake up from their thousand years long slumber. They haven’t been needed in so long. They had hoped to never be needed again, but they had known it would come. There is always a time for them to come. There is always a time for a god to be brought back to life. 

Their new body is strong, tied to a stronger body too, and they smile at the white haired man who is watching them with devotion. They are loved, in such a wave that it hits a god square in the face. Gods aren’t supposed to have mortal bodies, gods aren’t supposed to disappear for years, gods aren’t supposed to tie themselves to mortals. Jewel has. Well, Jewel’s new self has. But Jewel’s last self also had, and the previous one too, and… 

It had been to someone familiar to this golden-eyed man, each time. So Jewel reaches out and touches the man’s mouth, two fingers resting against their lips gently. It’s an old blessing, one from when they were still a child, a godling running around in the oceans of an unborn world. 

_ You have been mine, and I have been yours. We belong to one another, son of the wolf. _

The man looks startled as he looks at Jewel, and they smile, bright and wide. It is such a delight, to be back within the world. Now that they have their stone, only the death of their vassal will make them leave again. There is something that tells them that their death isn’t quite so close this time. They feel so  _ young _ .

“Jaskier?” 

The man speaks against their fingers, and Jewel smiles. So that is their name now.  _ Jaskier _ . They like it. 

There is something wrong though. Jewel turns their head and they frown. On one side, their people are golden and healthy, their skin hale and thriving with the life of the near-immortals. On the other side, they are grey and fading around the edges, a mock-blood substance falling out of them. 

So this is why Jewel has been brought back. Their smile is a bit bitter now, a bit angry. They are never brought back for peace. They are always here when disaster has hit their children. Maybe they’ll get to enjoy peace this time. Maybe.

Still, they have to bring what is needed. They have to stop the spread of the disease, to heal what the poison brought onto their people. Jewel loves their children, adores all their flaws. They made them to be enduring and strong, to reign in the chaos of life and to spread joy in the world. Each of them has a piece of Jewel, each of them is a piece of Them shared to the world. It hurts them when some of their children are wounded this way. 

They feel the gentle undercurrent of Chaos curling around them, dancing around their fingers, and they reach for it, pulling it from within their body. The amount of Chaos already within this body surprises them slightly, but then they feel the tug of something beyond, something grander than one person, and Jewel’s grin grows wider. Their people have chosen this embodiment of them to fight for them, to be their champion. They have chosen well, Jewel thinks. 

The Chaos within them rushes out daringly, flying and touching their children. The curse burns under their touch, and Jewel’s eyes burn with it, blue and yellow and red and purple, a flash of rainbow in the evening light. 

Life returns to their people, and the Chaos within them purifies itself as Jewel heals them. Jewel smiles tenderly. More healing is needed, and Jewel will provide, will bring back into their children the peace they deserve. 

—

Geralt watches as Jaskier sends a wave of Chaos through the battlefield, rippling and powerful, and his staring turns to awed wonder when he realizes the faes that had been fighting on Lenethor’s side are healing. Their skin is returning to a healthy tone, and the darkness that had surrounded them is fading. 

The being, the one which is Jaskier and isn’t at the same time, turns away and walks through the battlefield, flowers blooming under their feet with each move. They go through the whole battlefield, everyone standing without any movement. They are all waiting to see what this being will do next. 

It seems, Geralt observes as he keeps watching them, that they are healing those they pass by. They stop by Toren’s side and their fingers brush the wounded fae’s forehead. Toren draws in a ragged breath, his eyes flying open as he reaches for Armelle. They continue their way through the battlefield. 

They only stop by those who would not make it alive without their intervention. It slowly becomes clear in Geralt’s mind, who they are. 

A god is working through Jaskier, using the body of the man Geralt loves to heal the wounded faes. Geralt can feel their power through the bond, can feel it spreading and warming the air ever so slowly. 

It’s a slow process, but at the end, the god is back by Geralt’s side, and the witcher looks at him with unashamed wonder. He can still feel that it is Jaskier, in some form, and although he doesn’t know what exactly is happening, he trusts this god. He trusts  _ Jaskier _ .

_ You have a brother that needs me _ , the voice of the god resonates in his head again, and Geralt shivers.  _ I’ll heal him for you. I can feel your love for him, through your link to my mortal self. _

Lambert had almost slipped away completely from Geralt’s mind, and now he looks towards the healers’ tents. They are so far, and he wonders briefly if it isn’t too late, if Lambert hasn’t already…

_ Do not worry, dear heart _ , the god says and wraps their arms around Geralt, a lover’s embrace.  _ I will make sure he stays with you _ .

Geralt does not scream when he is lifted into the air swiftly, but it’s a near thing. Instead, he clutches to Jaskier, to the god holding him, and closes his eyes. He wonders if the magic will be broken, were he to look underneath them. 

Barely a second later, they are landing, and Jaskier’s strong arms let go of Geralt. He blinks his eyes open and realizes they are in one of the healing tents. 

Aiden is sitting on the edge of a bed, his head bent against Lambert’s, holding his face as tears fall from his eyes, heavy and large as they roll onto Lambert’s cheek. 

“Don’t leave me,” he is whispering against the Witcher’s lips, “You don’t get to be the first one to go, you hear me? You don’t get to die in battle with all the glory of the world. You don’t get to leave me, asshole. Come back, please, Lambert…” 

Geralt steps forward and touches Aiden’s shoulder. He can’t quite imagine the pain the other man is experiencing, the uncertainty of whether or not his lover will live further. He had never given much thought to his brother’s relationship, but it hits him now that Aiden and Lambert’s bond is as deep as the one he shares with Jaskier. It may not have the magical components, and they may not have bent Fate to their will, but they chose each other regardless. They are witchers, and destiny is their master, but they went ahead and chose to love each other, no matter the obstacles. 

“He’ll live,” Geralt assures Aiden when the cat witcher looks up. “He’ll be back with you soon.” 

“How-“ 

Aiden glimpses Jaskier, and he pales, his eyes shining for an instant. There is recognition in the look he gives the god as he walks forward, and Geralt has the odd feeling that it isn’t recognition of Jaskier, but rather of the god. As if Aiden had seen them before. 

_ I will heal your lover, son of the Wild. The son of the wolf will live, and I will give my blessings to both of you. _

The voice, if it can be called such when it resonates within Geralt’s mind, seems to also reach Aiden, and the witcher gets up, moving away from Lambert. He nods, short and harsh, and Geralt steps away as well. 

The god bends down, and then kneels, and rests their hand on Lambert’s forehead. Unlike with the faes they had healed on the battlefield, their Chaos is palpable in the room, clawing at Lambert and dragging a breath from his throat. Still, they keep healing him, and the wounds that had been piercing Lambert and threatening his life slowly fade, the muscle and skin reforming themselves. 

It’s a strange thing to watch, and it makes Geralt want to throw up, but he doesn’t. Seeing the flesh closing like this turns his stomach, and besides him, Aiden turns away. The sight of his lover like this is probably too much. Geralt puts a hand on his shoulder again, but doesn’t look away. 

The god turns their eyes back to Geralt when all the large wounds are closed, and strangely, Geralt gets the feeling that they are exhausted. 

_ Your brother will recover from his injuries. _

The god’s voice carries their exhaustion as well, and Geralt reaches out to them. His arms catch their falling form, and he feels Jaskier again, strong and unwavering, through their bond. 

The god has left, but they will come back, Geralt is certain of it.

—

Jaskier comes back to himself in his own tent, nestled against Geralt’s chest, surrounded by the warm body of his lover. His to-be husband. He smiles widely as he lets his hands cover Geralt’s naked torso. His hands caress the scars , and he feels Geralt waking up, although neither of them says anything. Fingers tread through his hair lightly, and he only looks up when there is a slight tug on it. 

“It’s good to see you awake again,” Geralt says, pressing a light kiss to Jaskier’s lips. “You were out for a full day.” 

“A full day?” 

Jaskier doesn’t even remember moving out of the battlefield. The last thing that comes to his mind is Geralt putting the necklace around his neck, and then… Warmth, and coldness, and the feeling of finally being whole, while also being separated from himself. Strange thoughts come back to him, dancing in his mind, and he tries not to frown. 

It must show on his face anyway, because Geralt caresses his cheek lightly as he nods. The white haired witcher is looking at Jaskier with absolute devotion and tenderness, and the Fae Prince feels all his worries fade away. He is safe here, in the gentle embrace of his lover, and there is nothing that could take that away from him. 

“What happened?” Jaskier’s hands still in their movements, resting on Geralt’s chest as his thumbs brush the marred skin. “I can’t recall anything after the necklace…” 

“Your creator god showed up,” Geralt sighs and holds Jaskier a little tighter. “According to your mother, they chose you at your birth as their new incarnation… The Jewel of the Faes, that’s what it meant. Apparently, you’re also Jewel? I was a bit concerned by making sure you were alright but your mother said that they only appeared in times of great trouble, and always chose a champion to bear their powers.” 

Jaskier vaguely recalls the story of creation for the faes, but he had never thought that he would be the embodiment of his people’s god. After all, he had never been particularly well versed in the fae gods, had never really cared much for the rites his mother dedicated to them every month. He supposes he’ll have to start from now on. 

They linger in the bed a little longer, trading soft kisses as Geralt catches Jaskier up on everything that happened. They don’t have the energy to do much more than kiss, but anyone would be pressed to find more than an inch of skin where they are not fully pressed against one another. They are reassuring themselves that they are still there, that they are both still alive. Jaskier can’t get enough of it, can’t stop the beacon of love that burns within him whenever he looks at Geralt. 

His witcher looks tired, but he also looks happy, and Jaskier can’t ask for anything more. There is nothing he loves more than seeing the soft smile curling Geralt’s lips, the way his eyes crinkle slightly when he does so. Jaskier could lose himself in the love he has for Geralt. 

When they finally drag themselves out of the safe covers of the bed, Jaskier feels the buzz of energy and life underneath his feet. It feels different from before the battle. More crisp and clear, brighter than it has ever been. 

“You asked me to marry you,” Geralt says as he pulls on a shirt, lacing the front of it properly for once. “You still mean it?”

Jaskier laughs a bit. “I’ve wanted to make you my husband since the second you accepted to be my bonded soul. There is no escaping me anymore, darling.” 

“I would never try and escape you,” the witcher comes to drape himself over Jaskier’s shoulders. “You are the greatest blessing life ever gave me.” 

Jaskier doesn’t blush, but it’s a near thing. “Such sweet words, my love.” 

“Only for you, dear heart,” Geralt smiles as he speaks, and Jaskier can’t help the overwhelming love rising in him. 

“Let’s get married now,” he says, turning around. “We don’t have to wait, we can just do it now! Your family is here, so is mine and-“ 

“My father isn’t,” Geralt frowns a bit. “He is still in Kaer Morhen.”

“We could open a portal to him,” Jaskier suggests. “I just, I don’t want to wait any longer. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? To the faes, you are already my husband of course but… I want to make it official, to make it clear to everyone that sees us, that we belong to each other.” 

“I want that too. Do you really think a portal to Kaer Morhen could work?” 

“I don’t see why not.” Jaskier shrugs. “I’ll ask Armelle if she feels up to helping me with one, but I could do one on my own now, I think.” 

The smile Geralt gives him is nothing short of blinding, and Jaskier chuckles. He will do everything in his power to see that smile over and over again.

— 

The tent Geralt is dressing in is not as comfortable as the one he shares with Jaskier, but Armelle had insisted he did not stay where Jaskier was dressing. He doesn’t understand the custom, but it doesn’t really bother him. He’ll get to see Jaskier soon enough, and then it will truly be for the rest of their lives.

“Are you going to preen in front of the mirror all fucking day or are you ever going to be satisfied with the way you’re dressed, so that we can start the wedding and be done with it?” 

Lambert is sitting in a mobile seat that one of the fae healers had crafted for him when they had realized he could not yet walk on his own. Of course, that realization had come to them when Lambert had tried getting up on his own, only to end up face first in the dirt. 

“Your brother’s getting married,” Vesemir scolds slightly from where he is standing. “When it’ll come to you, none of us will be asking for you to hurry up.” 

Aiden chokes a bit on his breath when the oldest witcher in the room mentions Lambert’s possible wedding, and Geralt catches Eskel’s grin as he taps Aiden’s back. 

They had gotten Vesemir a few hours ago, and the old wolf had taken barely an hour to adapt to the madness of Geralt’s life. He had been reasonably approving and impressed by Jaskier, and it had soothed a fear that Geralt hadn’t known he had. After all, his old fencing professor was like a father to him, and his opinion mattered more to Geralt than he thought. Each time he had brought something back to Kaer Morhen from his walk on the Path, it was always with Vesemir in mind.

“He looks like a proper git,” Lambert protests, not reacting the same way his lover has.

“At least I know how to dress myself,” Geralt says back casually and adjusts his overcoat. 

Armelle had left him with dark clothing, highlighted by gold and silver, and had told him they would fit. He hadn’t really questioned it; the magic of the faes was similar to a sorcerer’s power, but oh so different still, and he had no wish to break his own mind trying to understand it. A meeting with a god had been enough to remind him that he was a mortal, that his own powers were relatively useless compared to Jaskier’s. He is content with that knowledge. 

The dark grey shirt he had been given is tight fitting, but it isn’t in any way uncomfortable. Rather, the cotton is soft and comfortable, and while it is clearly a shirt not made to be worn on a hunt, Geralt would have no trouble drawing his weapon to fend off a potential threat. The coat over it is dark blue, and blinding golden threads are embroidered at the waist and sleeves, all in fae markings that Geralt doesn’t recognize properly. One of those means love, he is sure of that. After all, Jaskier had traced it often enough on his chest, teaching him some of the more recognizable runes of the ancient language the fae sometimes used. 

The pants are made in much the similar manner, with markings on either side of his legs, and he has been given boots, but he hesitates to pull them on. There are few faes who wear shoes, and Geralt is certain that Jaskier will be barefoot, even if it is their wedding. Rather, it would be surprising if he did put shoes on, and would feel not quite true to who he is. 

Geralt nudges the boots away and then ties his hair slowly. 

“You’re going to make a mess,” Eskel says fondly, and comes to stand behind him, grabbing a brush left at their disposition. “Let me take care of that.” 

The offer surprises him a bit, but he agrees regardless. “Thank you, Eskel.”

“You’re my brother,” the other witcher says and squeezes his shoulder. “There is no better thing than to look at you and see you be so happy.” 

Geralt smiles a bit, secret and private, and he lets Eskel brush and braid his hair. It involves a fair amount of cursing and tugging, but Eskel does manage. During that time, Lambert talks about the latesthunts he had gone on prior to the battle, Vesemir asks questions and reprimands them for their carelessness and failure to warn him about the battle. 

It feels like being back home in Kaer Morhen, and it’s a warm feeling that Geralt wants to cling onto. He loves his family, and while they aren’t always the best at expressing it, moments like this one are a clear proof of it. He can’t wait to bring Jaskier home for a winter and see how their dynamics will shift to include Geralt’s husband. 

His  _ husband _ . He can’t wait to call Jaskier just that. The bond between them is clear still, and he can feel joy and excitement through it, but the most important thing is the nearly overwhelming love that rises through their connection. Geralt returns it tenfold, but each time he is certain love can’t be an even more intense emotion, Jaskier turns around and surprises him. 

After Eskel is done brushing and braiding his hair, Vesemir takes a turn to make sure Geralt is properly dressed. There are slight tears shining in the older Witcher’s eyes, but neither of them comments on it. After all, there has been enough suffering throughout the years. Since the Sack of Kaer Morhen, they haven’t had much chance for private joy and ceremonies like this one. They would toast to living another year in the winter, and then they would remember the memories of the deceased, mournful hours spent in silence. They had all lost friends during the Sack, and being back at the Keep brought back memories of that, but it is also their home. And they all know that, as long as there is a witcher in Kaer Morhen, they stand strong. 

“Your boy,” Vesemir says finally, when Aiden and Lambert are bickering on their way out and Eskel is rolling his eyes at them. “He is a lucky one. Both to love you, and to be loved by you. You take good care of him, son.” 

Geralt smiles and draws his father in his arms, holding him tightly for a few seconds. “I will.” 

There is no need to say anything else beyond that. Their family is small and wounded, but they remain strongly tied to one another, and sometimes, there are no words needed to express what they mean. Years of living alongside each other have brought that on. 

A young fae, one that isn’t fully out of teenage hood, is waiting outside of the tent, and she bows to each of the witchers, although she keeps her deepest bow, more deferential, for Geralt. 

“I am here to escort you to the ceremony, sires.” 

Her voice is lilting and it is an almost perfect picture of peace and calm, but there is something underneath. A danger that is not active, and yet makes Geralt’s heartbeat speed up in his chest. Her eyes are a little too green, her teeth a little too white. A child of the fae, whose magic isn’t yet controlled, is a dangerous thing, it seems. Still, she seems to be happy, and she carries flowers in her hands , all of them blue and golden. A symbol of prosperity and peace, Geralt plucks one of those flowers and places it securely against one of the buttons of his coat. The girl smiles brightly as all the witchers do so, and she turns around again. 

“Follow me, my lords!” 

Her steps are quick and steady, but they have no trouble following her to the edge of the battlefield. 

It had been ravaged with weapons the previous days, but the faes had taken to cleaning it and made it burst with life as soon as they had all felt able to. It had been a bit of a wonder for Geralt to see that. After all, half of those faes had been under Lenethor’s influence mere hours before. But now, they were singing and dancing, falling into the arms of long gone relatives, and rather than seeking out revenge for any fallen kin, they had buried them and made trees and flowers bloom on the places of their graves. 

Now, the battlefield is a beautiful young wood, where flowers and trees share space in a complicated pattern. There is a large path made in delicately cut rocks, and Geralt briefly wonders how he did not hear anything while he was getting ready, then he assumes that it is due to the faes’ magic. They might have surrounded the tent he was in with magic to make sure he could not escape and go see Jaskier. He had, after all, been tempted to do just that more than once.

“Walk to the end of the path, my Lord, when you hear the third bell ringing.” The young Fae bows to him and looks expectantly at Eskel, Aiden, and Lambert. “I will lead your brothers to their seats. Your father may escort you to the altar.” 

Vesemir nods at the three younger witchers, who are led ahead of Geralt to the wedding party. He fidgets with the cuff of his jacket as he waits, a bit impatient. He has waited for this day for what feels like forever. It feels like he has been waiting for it ever since he was born, despite him only having met Jaskier a few weeks back. 

“Do you think it’s too rushed?” He doesn’t turn to Vesemir as he asks, trying to keep the fear of his mentor’s judgement away from his voice. “I know it’s all very sudden and-“ 

“You forge your own life, Geralt,” Vesemir says kindly and takes his hands in his own. “You do what feels right by you, not what feels right by others, alright? There is no better thing to do than that. And you love that Fae Prince, don’t you? Both of you seem to be crushingly in love with each other. I’ll tell you something, son. I would rather you be hot headed and marry every single person that makes you smile and laugh the way he does, than you keep to yourself and avoid any chance of happiness because that’s how people view all of us witchers. You deserve some happiness in your life, Geralt. Let yourself bask in it; the hard times will come back soon enough.” 

Geralt takes in a shaky breath and nods. He hugs the older man briefly again. It seems like he’ll never run out of love lately. 

There is the distant sound of bells ringing, then another one, and then a third one picks up, and Geralt starts walking with Vesemir. Neither of them say anything as they follow the path. It never branches out, never disappears, and Geralt can glimpse small markings set within the stone, similar to the ones on his coat and pants. It must be a wedding blessing, or a royal blessing, he supposes as he comes to the realization that yes, Jaskier is a prince, and also the physical representation of a god on the Continent. Geralt’s life is certainly never going to be boring. 

At the end of the path, there is a large meadow covered in buttercups. The sun shines brightly, and everything is bathed in golden sun rays, but Geralt barely notices. All his attention is focused on the man waiting for him at the altar. 

Jaskier is wearing a dress, longer and much stricter than anything he has previously worn around Geralt. The green shade of it makes Jaskier almost blend in with the forest, and the brown, bark-like corset he wears that grows out in his back in a wide antler like manner only adds to the impression that he is a spirit of the forest. The skirt of the dress is swirled with flowers, all freshly picked and sustained only through magic, and it goes to cover his feet and most of the ground around him. He still wears the blue jewel the Wild Ones had given him, and it is the only thing that makes him seem more like himself than a godly apparition come to protect the new forest. 

His eyes and lips are painted gold, and it gives him a sharpness that Geralt hadn’t truly paid attention to before. Jaskier has always preferred to be soft and tender around Geralt, but right now, his outfit and makeup give him the sharpness of a wild animal. He is breathtaking, and it takes all that Geralt has not to fall to his knees and worship him as his private god. 

Jaskier’s smile when Geralt arrives closer is blinding, and he extends a hand to Geralt, which he eagerly takes. His steps take him closer to the altar, where a large volume is open on a blank page, a small knife and a ribbon next to it. Armelle is behind it and she smiles at them both. Geralt glances back at Vesemir and the other witcher smiles softly before going to sit with the rest of Geralt’s family. 

“Hi, my love,” Jaskier whispers softly as the last bells finish ringing out in the air. 

Geralt doesn’t get a chance to answer. Armelle steps forward and raises her arms, magic flying out of her hand and quieting the meadow . 

“We gather to celebrate the wedding of the Jewel of the Fae, Prince Jaskier of the Jagody, to Geralt of Rivia, Wolf Witcher. Their souls are bonded, and their hearts beat as one. They have proven to us that they are worthy of their bond, that they will represent the best union possible for the Fae Court, and for each other. Now, they will share their blood, and as is the custom, they will leave their imprint in the royal archives.” 

Jaskier had warned Geralt of this. A blood bond, beyond their soul bond, to mark their commitment. Geralt is still looking forward to it, despite the implications it could have. Blood magic is dangerous, but Geralt trusts Jaskier. 

So he grabs the knife and slowly slices his palm open. “I love you.” 

There are no other words to say, nothing else that Geralt can share with so many people. Another time, he will whisper all his love into Jaskier’s skin, worship him the way he deserves. But for now, those simple words will have to do. 

Jaskier smiles brightly and takes the knife, slicing his own palm before taking Geralt’s in his own and squeezing tightly. “As do I.”

Their bloods mingle slowly, and Geralt can feel the pull of the magic as Armelle ties their hand together while whispering the spell that weds them, binds their bodies together as well as their souls. 

When they turn back after letting their bloody handprints on the blank pages, Geralt smiles and intertwines his fingers with Jaskier’s. He breathes in, but it is Jaskier who exhales. 

They are fully one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYYY THERE IT IS!! 
> 
> This chapter was... everything I've wanted to write for a little while. They are both so sweetly in love, and there is nothing they can do to hide it. Do they even want to, in this verse? No, and why would they? Their love is literally what saves them, throughout time. I adore them. 
> 
> Thank you guys for sticking with me all through this story!! It was a wild ride, I wasn't fully happy with all the chapters, but they all worked out for the best! And I'm so very proud of it in the end. You guys have all been amazing readers, and every comment has meant the world to me. Thanks for making this such a positive experience <3 
> 
> Stay safe y'all, and stay the best <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this! Part 2 will be up within the week, very probably, unless I get started on another fic before finishing this one, but doubtful. 
> 
> Leave a comment, kudos, anything you want :D You can even come chat on tumblr where I post about fic writing and most of my dumb ideas: @saltytransidiot ! Anon's always on, so don't be shy :) 
> 
> (also if you leave a comment, I will be very happy and I will answer)


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